Where We Start
by FanFictionFantom
Summary: Ron's in Hufflepuff, Hermione's in Ravenclaw, and our fabby hero Harry Potter...? An AU by yours truly that takes a look at the meanings of friendship, choice, and lilac bloomers. [Only kidding about the last, though. Sort of.]
1. Friendship

Hello, old chums of mine. It's definitely been a while, and yes, I know, I haven't popped out another parody as promised. And I'm very sorry, but what can I say—I had a little idea for an AU fic that sort of bloomed or sprouted or one of those stupid sayings. And a hundred pages later, here we are. I hope the fact that this isn't a parody like my other stories won't stop you all from reading.

I'm not trying to be bigheaded, but I really do love this story—it took me so long, and halfway through it was deleted—how cliché, I know—so I had to salvage everything I'd written from emails to my beta and translate all the warbled symbols back into real punctuation. It was traumatizing, chums, I'm telling you, and what a heroic story of much dedication, perseverance, and swearing.

So anyway, I've got the entire first part written and I'm working on the second. I hope those of you who are willing to give it a chance enjoy it.

!DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER!

Bah. Forgot this the first time, as usual. Don't own anything. Er, insert something witty. Whatever.

!END DISCLAIMER END DISCLAIMER!

Ahem……..I'd like to dedicate this to my beta, Jenny **Weirdlyyours**, go read her if you're into that…shudder…anime stuff who actually waded through all my errors and made it all a little less monstrous, and my lovely muse Abby **Poetic License** who is responsible for much of the plot and who I should thank profusely for talkin' nerdy to me.

Where We Start 

Chapter One: Friendship

Ron made his way back to the Charms classroom, his pace a little harried. There might be some Slytherins left in the room, and they didn't look too kindly on his house—well, any house for that matter. Luckily, there was only that bushy-haired Ravenclaw girl, he noticed as he picked up the book he'd left on his desk after Flitwick's lesson.

She glanced at him and smiled. "Are you here for discussion on Charms theory too?" she asked, the lights flashing off her rather large front teeth.

Ron ran his hand through his flaming hair. "No," he said, a little embarrassed. The girl's smile faded and a cold, haughty expression replaced it. "Oh. Well, I shouldn't expect anything more from a Hufflepuff, I suppose."

Ron left the room and the girl even faster and feeling more rotten that when he'd entered.

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Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed discussing Charms with Professor Flitwick at lunch, but once she'd returned to the Ravenclaw common room, it only emphasized the fact that, here, she had nobody to talk to.

The first few years, she'd told herself they simply were jealous of her brain—they were Ravenclaws, after all, and valued smarts as competitively as she did. Then, in third year, she'd come to the conclusion that they didn't like her as a whole.

Fourth year had brought upon a stint of trying to dumb herself down and hoping for friendship. But it'd crushed her to do it and by now the bushy-haired newly-made prefect had finally come to terms with the fact that she wouldn't have friends.

Oh well, she told herself, settling down in an armchair with a book. More time for reading.

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Harry stormed through the castle, mind intent and prefect's badge crooked but gleaming. He finally found his target lounging outside the Great Hall. Green eyes blazing, Harry faced the other boy and crossed his arms in a tense stance. "Malfoy," he acknowledged him.

The Slytherin leaning against the wall replied with a nod: "Potter."

"I hear you bullied some kid at dinner today for a box of chocolate frogs," Harry began accusingly.

"I sure did, Sir Prefect."

Harry stood still, waiting. Finally, when he realized the boy wasn't going to follow up on that, he burst out: "Well, go on, you little wanker, did you save some for me?"

Malfoy smirked and withdrew several packages from his robes, throwing a few to Harry. "You know I did, stupid." Harry grinned and unwrapped a frog, scarfing it down.

"Come on, Potter. You're a prefect now. All sorts of fun things we can do this year. All sorts of rewards." He raised his half-eaten frog in a toast and turned towards the dungeons. Harry laughed, took a bite of his second frog, and followed his best friend to the common room.

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Very short, I know, but it does get longer. I actually think my author-notes were longer than the chapter. Once again, please don't hate me for not giving you another parody :

What do you all think? Leave me some reviews please. Though I, FFF, am but a humble parody-writer, I really am trying to put out something with a little seriosity, so it'd be lovely if you told me whether I'm on the right track.

Thanks, chums.


	2. Bum Boy

Hello again! I suppose it's stupid to wait for reviews and just let my story get buried. So here you go, loyal reviewers—all two of you, harharhar. Chapter the second. Enjoy…

Chapter Two: Bum-Boy

Harry leaned back in his chair, watching the Potions master, Snape, drone on and on about the beauty of dumping a fat lot of lacewings in with some essence of whatsit, blah blah blah, and that sort of thing. As if they couldn't just get to the instructions and simply skip this whole ordeal.

He studied Snape, greasy hair to depressing robe choice. Malfoy seemed to like him, but then he was Lucius' lapdog. In Harry's opinion, the man was weak—old enough to be his father—and this was all he amounted to in all those years. Harry had bigger plans. Well, they weren't certain, he admitted, but he was definitely going to be something, something great, just like the Sorting Hat had promised him in first year.

And he'd be damned if he still didn't have a woman at that age.

"Keep doing that and you'll fall on your bum, Potter," a voice drawled into his ear, breaking him from his reverie.

He rolled his eyes at Malfoy. "You worry about your own bum and I'll worry about mine, how's that sound?" Malfoy smirked. "What's so funny?"

"The fact that Snape's been standing to your left for a half minute and you still haven't noticed, bum-boy," Malfoy whispered.

Harry checked to his left, and indeed, there stood the foul old bat, staring down at him. I don't know how he manages to see me at all with that beak between us, Harry mused. He grinned in defeat and wagged a finger at his friend. "Ah, ah, ah, Malfoy. _Professor_ Snape."

"How kind, Mr. Potter. Now do"—SLAM—"stay grounded and join us for the lesson, won't you?" Snape asked silkily, leaving Harry's chair with all four legs planted on the floor and leaving Harry somewhat disgruntled.

The lecture dragged on until Snape finally allowed them to start brewing. "So, Malfoy...about this potion...what is it?"

"We just got lectured on it for fifteen minutes and you want to know what it is?"

"Well, if you'd rather me be more specific, what's it called, what's it do, and how do I make it?"

Malfoy sneered. "Why should I tell you?"

Harry grinned and threw an arm around the other boy's shoulders. "'Cause we're chums who go way back and who knows what you'd do without me?"

Malfoy laughed. "Well, Potter, when you put it that way, the potion's a Hiccupping Draught and the instructions are on the board, you ninny."

Harry grinned and winked. "Thanks, love."

"How many times have I asked you not to threaten my heterosexuality, Potter?"

As they all filed out of the class after thirty minutes and a self-test on their draughts, Snape said smoothly to the still hiccupping Harry, "You're the only Slytherin I take points off, you know, Mr. Potter. Ten for cheek this time."

"Ah, well, Professor, you know I do have a lot of cheek, but it really could be much worse. Some people have an incredible lot of nose to deal with, that can be quite--"

Malfoy yanked him out of the classroom before the apoplectic Snape could take off another ten points.

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Good? Bad? Want to bludgeon me to death? Tell me about it in a review! And yes, I am whoring here—if you've got anything you'd like me to read and review, I'd be happy to return the favor.


	3. A Bad Sort

Well, I think at this point it'd be good to forget the idea of getting loads of reviews. Ah well. For any of you who are actually reading, I hope you enjoy. And for those of you who reviewed, I'm eternally grateful. (Oh, yeah, and italics are always going to mean a flashback.)

Chapter Three: A Bad Sort

"_Good luck at the Sorting, Harry!"_

"_Make us proud, boy."_

"_Bring us back a toilet seat!"_

"_Sirius!"_

_Harry watched them all call to him from the window, his mother tearful, his father proud, Sirius…well, being completely unserious. "Make us proud", his father had said. Well, of course, he was expected to be sorted into Gryffindor just like his parents and their friends had been. _

_The compartment door slid open. It was a boy with white-blonde hair, a boy who looked at Harry rather sneeringly. And yet when he spoke, his voice was light. "Aren't you the Potters' son?"_

_Harry nodded, unsure of what to say. _

_The blonde boy extended his hand. "I'm Draco Malfoy."_

_Harry didn't take it, but laughed. Years of growing up with Sirius around had taught him to laugh as much as possible, whenever possible. _

"_Think my name's funny, four eyes?" Malfoy snapped, his hand frozen in midair._

"_Yeah, yeah I do." And Harry shook the boy's hand. Malfoy looked torn between anger and amusement. Finally, he laughed and sat down next to Harry._

_The train had almost begun moving when Harry spied a gaggle of redheads, all boys with varying ages, rushing onto the train. "G'bye, Fred! G'bye, George!" called a little redheaded girl standing with her mother, who sighed in relief at making the train. The bunch of freckled boys rushed past Harry and Draco's compartment. The last of them, and the youngest, gave Harry a curious glance before exiting. Harry stared after him, then turned back to the window. _

_The little girl outside stared up at him with a gaze more inquisitive than that of the boys. Tentatively, she waved at him. He smiled and was about to wave back when Malfoy, who'd been eating sweets given to him by his mother, said through mouthfuls, "You don't wanna wave to her. That lot's a bad sort, you know."_

"_Bad sort?" The train began to move._

"_Oh, yeah. Live in a pigsty. Love Muggles." The train picked up speed, leaving Platform 9 and ¾ , the little redhead girl, and Harry's parents and godfather behind._

"_Urgh, no, not Muggles!" Harry, who'd had a few experiences with the horrible ones his mother was related to, gave a shudder. Who'd willingly spend time with people like that?_

"_The very sort. Embarrassing, isn't it?" Malfoy licked his fingers of sugar. "So, what house are you hoping to get into? I want Slytherin."_

"_My parents…well, they're—" _

_The compartment door slid open, and Harry was thankfully saved from explaining his Gryffindor heritage to his only new friend. A girl with a lot of brown hair and large teeth stood there, a bossy air about her. She looked at them expectantly. After a moment she asked, "Well? Have you got it?"_

_Harry and Malfoy looked at each other in confusion for a second, then Malfoy asked, "Got what?"_

"_The turtle," she replied eagerly. "You know, the one that can fly."_

_The boys shared another quick glance, this one of amusement. Then Malfoy burst out laughing._

"_What? Haven't you got it? The girls in my compartment, they said you had one and you were showing it to everyone and that I should go see it right away—oh." The girl finished off her rapid prattle with an embarrassed expression. Her face reddened and her eyes fell for a moment, then she quickly regained her composure. "Well, er, I can't waste my time here then. I've got a lot of…of books to read."_

_Harry rolled his eyes at the girl's retreating back, thinking they'd seen the last of her for now, but Malfoy had other ideas._

"_You're a Mudblood, aren't you?" he called to her._

"_A what?" She turned around. _

"_Muggleborn. Only a Mudblood would be that excited to see a flying turtle."_

_The girl glared at him. "Yes, I am. So what?" she asked shrilly._

_Malfoy sniggered. "Oh, nothing. Best run off now, Mudblood." The girl walked away furiously. Malfoy turned to Harry, eager to laugh about her with him, but only received a punch on the arm. "What was that for?" he hissed._

"_Manners."_

"_What?"_

"_You shouldn't call them that."_

"_Why the bloody not?"_

"_Because my mum told me it's impolite," Harry replied calmly._

"_Well, your mum would…"_

"_Oh, stuff yourself, Malfoy."_

"_They haven't got any right to be here—they're not really magic—"_

"_Anyone who says my mum isn't really magic hasn't ever been Scourgified by her," Harry assured him firmly. "Besides, you could get in trouble for that kind of talk. My parents say it died out with You-Know-Who."_

Malfoy said nothing, but looked out the window. Harry wondered how to ease the mood, and decided upon elbowing Malfoy in the side. When the blonde boy turned to him, Harry grinned and said, "I think I'm going to have to teach you etiquette on top of everything else, aren't I?" 

_Malfoy couldn't help but chuckle. _

_The train sped past the Muggle buildings and into rolling green hills already covered in a light scattering of golden autumn leaves._

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There you go. Sorry--for some reason, it wouldn't change the third-to-last paragraph to italics, no matter how many times I editted it. Oh yeah, and remember how I said I'm giving up on reviews? I completely lied. I am a shameless review slut.

(No more chapters until I get at least five reviews on this. I mean that, firmly. Hmph. I see you, Mr. Reader-sans-Reviewer. Don't think I don't see you, little whippersnapper.)

Ahem…..REVIEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!


	4. Home

Hello, my lovely readers. And as for the reviewers, thank you all. Gracias. Merci. A lot. Today we've got a bit of back-story. Hope you enjoy…

Chapter Four: Home

Of course, Arthur and Molly Weasley had been slightly put out when Ron had been put in Hufflepuff. It wasn't exactly a coveted place. And it sure didn't help having five other brothers who'd all been Gryffindors and who'd all left some kind of mark or another in the castle. Of course, with Fred and George, those marks were literally in the castle. One only had to look as far as where the statue of Echarwise the Elderly _used_ to be.

The breaking point had been when Ginny—shy meek little Ginny—became one of the high and mighty lionhearted. That was when Ron realized that out of all seven of them, he was inferior.

Fred and George, after the Sorting, had been surprisingly comforting. "Don't worry, Ron, you wouldn't believe the amount of nutters you get in Gryffindor," George had assured him.

"We're the only reasons the whole House hasn't been shut down, you know," Fred had said sagely.

Hufflepuff house hadn't turned out that bad, actually. Ron had made friends with the little black-haired girl, Susan Bones, right away. With the exception of that idiot Ernie Macmillan, they weren't a bad lot. A bit dim, though.

Like me, thought Ron.

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It would usually take a large earthquake to rip Hermione Granger's eyes off a book, but when her mother walked in one June day and told her she'd gotten a letter inviting her to a school of witchcraft and wizardry, she hadn't just looked up from the book. It'd fallen out of her hands.

Once the girls in her compartment had told her, with traces of annoyance in their voices, about the four houses of Hogwarts, she knew almost for certain that she'd be put into Ravenclaw. In the future, she'd think a little wistfully on what it'd be like to have been a Gryffindor, brave and golden.

But there'd been no one to share these secret dreams with. The only ones who'd appreciated having her around were her head of house, Professor Flitwick (who'd have been offended at her desire to change houses) and Professor McGonagall (whom she didn't think liked hearing about the aspirations of teenagers). Certainly, she couldn't tell her parents, who'd simply ask what a Giffy Door was and how it worked.

So she wrote it all in a diary for a while. That had worked out fine until Padma Patil had stolen it and read it to their entire house in third year. Michael Corner had been most amused to hear what she'd written about his "baby blue eyes". The entire Common Room had shaken with laughter that night.

Hermione had been very careful about what she told anyone, even a book, after that.

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Really short, I know. Sorry. But, ahem, that last sentence just _may _be important. Hypothetically. Maybe. And I did enjoy writing in some Fred and George…not to mention Ernie-bashing.

D You know the drill, dears…REVIEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!


	5. Only a Bit of Paper

I greet you heartily and thank those of you who reviewed with a dramatic flailing of the arms. Now—to business. Today's menu consists of another flashback, more back story, and Sirius Black (probably the coolest mix of godfather and ex-con ever—well, not so much the ex-con part in this world, though…)

Chapter Five: Only a Bit of Paper

"_Honestly, James, Slytherin? How'd he manage to fall into that bunch of Snivelluses?" Sirius's harsh voice carried up the stairs to where Harry was crouched, already squeezed into his Christmas sweater. _

"_Bugger off, Sirius. Quit talking like Harry's joined the Dark side. It's not that big of a deal," James retorted._

"_Not that big of a deal! We're talking about the house that spawned the filthiest maggot that ever stalked the earth."_

"_You mean Snape?"_

"_No, I mean Bellatrix. Of course I mean—well, actually, Bellatrix, too, now that I bring it up. You're seriously under-reacting here, Prongs."_

"_Maybe if your parents had under-reacted when you got put in Gryffindor, you'd be less of a maniac today, Sirius Black."_

"_That was different."_

"_Oh? How?"_

"_Well, for one, my father wasn't a weak little shrimp in glasses…" Sirius said. James laughed in spite of himself._

_Harry leaned his head against the banister. He could still remember what that patchy hat had said to him when he'd been Sorted several months back._

"_You could be great in Slytherin, you know…"_

_Okay, Harry had thought. Okay, put me in Slytherin._

_And the hat had opened up its brim of a mouth and finally bellowed, "SLYTHERIN!"_

_Even the disappointed look Harry expected on his dad's face couldn't dim the delight he felt hearing Malfoy cheer for him as he made his way to the table. _

_Back in the present, Harry heard his mother call them all for Christmas dinner and scrambled down the stairs, met with a defiant look from his dad and a forced grin from the still bristling Sirius. _

_After dinner, Harry's dad drew him away from all the others. Sirius broke away from Harry's mum and Lupin, joining the two in the shadows of the hallway._

"_Now, Harry," James began in a conspiratorial whisper. "I haven't given you a Christmas present yet. Have I, Padfoot?"_

"_No, Prongs, you haven't. The poor boy," Sirius said with a sly smile. Harry, who'd spent nearly twelve years around these two, knew that when his dad or his godfather smiled that way, something grand was going to happen._

_James rummaged in his cloak and his hand emerged holding a rather tattered piece of parchment. "What's that, dad? My present's old parchment?" Harry asked, feeling disappointed. Parchment for Christmas? That was a new low._

"_Harry, Harry, Harry, this is not merely a piece of parchment. This, my boy, is," James began, looking over his shoulder to make sure Lily and Lupin were still in the kitchen, "the Marauder's Map. The pride and joy of our school days. Hard time I had sneaking it out of Filch's office last summer, too," James said with a hint of pride. "Just, er, don't tell your mum about this."_

"_Or Remus, the old party-pooping coot." Sirius took the parchment, stuck his wand at it, and declared, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Suddenly, thin lines snaked around the page until they formed the words: _

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers_

_are proud to present_

The Marauder's Map 

_And under this banner lay the entire map of Hogwarts._

"_It shows you everything, Harry. The people, the rooms, even that bloody Mrs. Norris," Sirius said. "Look, there, it's showing some boy named Ronald Weasley in the Hufflepuff common room—"_

"—_And Dumbledore and the staff eating dinner in the Great Hall—"_

"—_And Snivellus alone in his slimy dungeons!" Sirius and James howled with laughter and Harry grinned at them. Then Lily's voice came._

"_James? What are you doing over there?" As Harry's mum came over to see, James quickly said "Mischief managed" (the map went blank again), and gave it to Harry to hide._

_Later that evening, when Lily was seeing to Lupin's guest room, Harry asked his father, "Is it…safe?"_

_James gaped at him, then at Sirius, then back. "Safe?"_

"_Can I trust it? It seems…smart…"_

_The two men laughed it off. "Harry, just because it's intelligent doesn't mean it's dangerous. It's only a bit of paper, really," his godfather explained as James laughed in the background. _

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A-hah! Foreshadowing, which will make sense later, I hope. How was it, oh kind and gentle readers? Am I butchering things up, or doing not quite so badly?

Leave it in a REVIEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! (Let's try for ten this time, shall we?)


	6. Presents

Well, there seems to be a problem with how short these chapters are. Thing is, I wrote all this during the school year and it didn't seem this ridiculously short in Microsoft Word. I sort of wrote it as a barrelful of drabbles that comes together in the middle, where our plot starts off. But if you guys like, I can combine each chapter with an adjacent one so you get more length. Would that be better?

Here's a chappie for you regardless…

Chapter Six: Presents

"What'd you get?" Malfoy asked Harry as they lay on their beds deep beneath the school.

If one took a regular room, stretched it out so that it was very long and very low, and threw on an ancient, rather eerie décor, one would get the Slytherin common room. At one end there was a fireplace, and all around it sat thin, high-backed armchairs all in the same shade of dark green. The walls were made of hard, cold stone, and round lamps that gave off a greenish glow hung from thick, silver chains on the ceiling.

To access this prestigious headquarters of "Dark masterminds" (as so many other—rather delusional—students would describe it as in excited whispers) one needed to make their way down to the dungeons and say the password to a particular wall, which in any other place would look rather questionable.

Harry thought it was overall a melodramatic way to live. If this was the lot Salazar Slytherin had been given as a common room, no wonder he'd gone berserk and left the school. The place was freezing.

However, it was the home he shared with Malfoy and his other friends, much as he may prefer the warmth and liveliness of the upper castle. Besides, the dormitories were all right—the brass snakes that twisted around the bedposts were a bit much, but otherwise it wasn't that bad of a place.

It was in this very dormitory that Harry and Malfoy now sprawled, prefect badges shoved aside while they opened the packages they'd got in the morning mail.

Harry's mum had sent him some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and when Harry told Malfoy this, the blonde boy had immediately demanded some. As they chewed on various flavors, Malfoy held up his own gift.

"Look at this. A diary. Father obviously wants me to get in touch with my feminine side," Malfoy concluded. Harry laughed. It was a small, black book with a rather shabby cover—surprising for a package sent from the Malfoys' manor.

Malfoy had noticed this and wrinkled his nose. "You'd think he'd have at least gotten me a new one, not some secondhand thing he probably picked off the street." He looked at Harry. "I'm throwing this away." He moved to do so, but Harry stopped him.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Malfoy? You haven't even opened it." Harry grinned. "Maybe it's your dad's and he accidentally owled it off to his precious Drakiekins."

Malfoy reached across the few feet between their beds and slugged Harry in the shoulder, then looked at the diary considerably. "Maybe you're right. I've always wanted to know how father felt about Aunt Bellatrix getting shipped off to Azkaban." But he scowled a moment later—he'd opened it and it was empty. "You and your notions, Potter."

Harry sighed, snatching the feeble diary away from the other boy and rifling through it. "It's all empty. I'd at least fill in a page before I got bored and chucked it."

"Probably someone just got a diary, realized how only prats keep them, and pawned it. Now throw that thing out the window and pass me more of those beans, Potter."

Harry pocketed the diary and obliged.

Before bed that night, he took the little book out one more time. This time, he noticed some blurred writing on the first page. It was a date, from fifty years or so ago, and had words written under it.

"T. M. Riddle."

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Can this be a sighting of…the plot? Well, at least all the book foreshadowing (if anyone spotted it) is revealed. Please review—last chapter we couldn't get ten, but I'm sure if everyone who read contributed one word, we'd have…a very weird disjointed sentence

Not to mention I'd like to know what you think of the chapter-combining idea.


	7. The Poor Boy

Urgh. Personally, this is the chapter I hate the most. I'm not so great at writing Dumbledore being serious and all…but it is pretty necessary fill-in-the-blanks stuff, so I had to do it.

Thanks to all my reviewers. Fist-shaking at all the readers who aren't reviewing, if any. But enjoy anyway. (This has been slightly edited to give more reasons why Slughorn squealed about his Horcrux memory.)

Chapter Seven: The Poor Boy

"_Oh, Albus, is it—the rumors—are they true?" The witch asked pleadingly. _

_The old man's eyes weren't twinkling tonight. "Yes, my dear Professor, I'm sad to say that they are."_

"_That poor little boy…his parents, are they dead?"_

"_Yes, Minerva. He found them. Their secret-keeper must have broken down."_

"_Well, at least you caught up with him. He's really gone, I hope?" Minerva McGonagall asked sharply, square glasses glinting through the darkness. _

"_He is. His curse rebounded, and somehow he has vanished. But the poor child…he was killed as well." The man's voice turned bitter. "Voldemort's Death Eaters were eager to carry out their master' last wishes."_

_A sob: "And where are the Horcruxes now, Albus?"_

"_We've got them at the headquarters, Minerva. I hope to have them destroyed as quickly as I can," Dumbledore said as he took an odd-looking pocket watch out of the folds of his robe. "We can only thank our lucky stars that Horace Slughorn chose to tell us about them when he did…it is the only method of preventing Voldemort's return to power," he said, checking the watch._

_The witch snorted. "Trust Horace to wait till the coast is clear to confess." _

"_He was a great admirer of the Longbottoms, but I won't deny that it took some persuasion," Dumbledore said calmly._

_McGonagall's nostrils flared, but the look on Dumbledore's face somewhat quelled her irritation at Slughorn and a bit of pity replaced it. She'd seen Albus Dumbledore at his most formidable—the only wizard You-Know-Who ever feared._

"_At the very least," Dumbledore continued, "we can prevent Voldemort from ever returning now…"_

_But McGonagall caught a trace of worry in Dumbledore's voice. "There's something else, isn't there, Albus? Something bad…"_

_He sighed wearily and snapped his watch shut. "We know from the memory Slughorn provided us that Tom Riddle planned on making several Horcruxes, most likely seven—" McGonagall nodded, remembering Riddle's carefully controlled features as the Order of the Phoenix had seen in the Pensieve—"Apart from his own body, we've only found five, Minerva."_

"_The sixth—where is it, Albus?" McGonagall sounded frantic. Her hands were squeezed in an iron death grip around a piece of her cloak. _

"_We don't know, Minerva. But we'll find it. I have the greatest confidence in the Order."_

_This triggered another sob: "Oh Albus…how can we go on without them?"_

"_They fought him bravely," Dumbledore said soothingly. "You know how I feel about death, Minerva. It is only the next—"_

"—_Great adventure, I know." The woman's voice had steadied, and she let go of her worried robe and tried to smooth it out. "Poor Neville. At least now…Lily and James have little to fear."_

"So we hope." The old man sighed. "That's enough of that, though. We may as well join the celebrations."

"_I don't know if I can," McGonagall replied. "That poor boy…"_

_The two professors made their way through Diagon Alley and back to the Leaky Cauldron. In Godric's Hollow, a young boy named Harry Potter slept peacefully._

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I've decided chapter-connecting would mess up the flow of things. It really was meant to be a collection of drabbles in the beginning, a sort of what-if un-serious thing. Then I gave it a little plot and it got less drabble-y and more event-y. So I hope you guys can put up with the shortness—chapters get a bit longer nearing the twentieth.

Please review, young grasshoppers.


	8. Prefect Duty

I got a review in Russian last time (I think it was Russian…) which heartens me as it is surely a sign of world domination through fanfiction. My stupid writing is reaching the far corners of the globe, I'm flattered.

I just wish I knew what it said…"Justina", dear, if you review again, please do it in English…

Thanks goes out to these lovely readers for reviewing chapter seven: Weirdlyyours, Poetic License, Justina, DCoD, and Nutz Nina. My friend brought up a good point--I didn't justify why Slughorn came forth with his memory last chapter--so I editted it a bit and you can go back and read it, if it, er, makes you feel better or something.

Anyway, onwards and upwards:

Chapter Eight: Prefect Duty

"Urgh!"

"Watch where you're going!"

Harry picked himself up from the floor, slightly dazed. A small, redheaded girl lay at his feet on the trophy room floor. He grinned wickedly. Malfoy had tormented the other Weasley boy enough for Harry to be able to spot one of the clan from their vivid hair and freckles.

"Hello, Muggle-lover. What patchy robes you've got on today. What is it, third, fourth-hand?"

She glared up at him with a little fear in her gaze. Harry's smirk broadened.

"What House are you in? Gryffindor, if I guess right. They must have felt sorry for you—oomph—"

The girl had hopped up and sunk a small fist straight into Harry's jawbone. "What the hell d'you think you're doing!" Harry hissed, holding his jaw in pain.

"Potter, did I see right? Did you just get beat on by a little Muggle-lover?"

Harry turned to Malfoy, who'd just walked in, and said furiously, "She's a nutter! And how in hell did you even find me?"

"Used the Map." Malfoy waved his hand in dismissal. "What's going on here?"

"She attacked me right out of the blue. I tell you, Malfoy, if I weren't such a gentleman—"

Malfoy scoffed. "Don't make me laugh, Potter. You're not a gentleman, you're just a pansy." He turned to Ginny. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for assaulting a prefect," he gloated. "Oh, and twenty more for having non-regulation holes in your robes, Weasley." He laughed as she slunk away, crackling with indignation. Harry fleetingly thought of a moment not too long ago when the very same girl had waved up at him shyly from a train station.

Sighing in frustration, he leaned against one of the trophy cases and regarded Malfoy. "You come to find me for a reason? Or does the Map show you when something funny's going to happen, now?"

"I wouldn't put it past that thing, but no, I do have a reason. A strange one."

"What is it?"

"Father sent me post today asking if I'd tried out the diary yet."

"And?" Harry asked, unsure of what this was leading to.

"Don't you think it's a little off that he sent me some ugly book and then mailed me practically desperate to know if I'd written in it?" Malfoy asked in exasperation.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Maybe he pieced it together himself and really, really wants you to like it," he suggested dryly. But no, he reminded himself almost at once. The diary had been made more than fifty years ago, hadn't it?

Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever. I just lied and wrote that I'd put my schedule down in it so far, and that tonight I was going to write all about my day, and then maybe tomorrow I could describe my ambitions to become a little pink pixie…"

Harry laughed and was about to ask Malfoy just how he planned on becoming a pixie when an inscription on a trophy to his left caught his eye: "For Special Services to the School: Tom Marvolo Riddle".

Harry caught his breath. The same name—for surely T. M. stood for Tom Marvolo—within two weeks, at the same place. Maybe the diary hadn't been picked off the street after all.

Oh well, he assured himself as he and Malfoy made their way to the Great Hall for lunch. It's not as if this Riddle fellow ever wrote anything down in the old diary anyway. And yet…maybe it would be wise, Harry considered, to see if there was any way to reveal some sort of secret ink, as there was with the Map. Yes, he'd look into it later.

But what with the upcoming Hogsmeade visit and more frequent Quidditch practices (Harry was a Beater), he soon forgot about the diary and it lay nestled inside his pillowcase where he'd hidden it.

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So hard fitting Ginny into all of this. But it was fun, she can be a delightful little scamp, can't she?

Please review (in English, if possible, but I won't be picky).


	9. Old Friends

Yo. Thanks to: DCoD, Poetic License, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and Weirdlyyours for reviews. Muchas gracias.

Here's the next chapter:

Chapter Nine: Old Friends

_"BASTARD!" Sirus Black took aim and swung the candlestick at his target's head. The smaller man squeaked and cowered in fright. _

_Sirius Black generally did not hit people smaller than him._

_Sirius Black had exceptions to this rule._

_One exception was Mundungus Fletcher, who was as resilient as dried tar and usually smelled just as bad. Not to mention that most of the time, he deserved it. Another exception was his ass of a brother Regulus, who also usually deserved it—there was only the slight problem of him having disappeared off the face of the earth._

_Sirius Black had added a new exception tonight. After all, one did not usually walk into an inn bathroom to see one's close friend examining a Dark Mark on his arm._

_"ALL THESE YEARS WE'VE BEEN SAVING YOUR SKIN FROM EVERY SODDING PERSON WHO'D HAVE RAMMED YOUR WORTHLESS BUM INTO THE GROUND! AND THIS—THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY US!"_

_This was followed by a crash—the candlestick had missed its target and smashed into the door Peter had been pressed against. As Sirius tugged it out from amidst the splinters of wood, Peter squeaked. "Please, Sirius, please, I wasn't going to do anything—I could have helped with the Order—like Snape—"_

_This was not the right thing to say to Sirius, now or anytime. "Oh, Snape!" he roared. "Snape the Saint, He-Who-Never-Meant-Any-Harm. Oh, yes, Peter," Sirius barked out harshly, with a smile that made his teeth look sharp, "yes, I think you're quite on your way to his rank."_

_It was the vampiric smile that did it. Peter squeaked one last time, and by the end of it he was on the floor and rather furrier than before. The little rat took off, and a great black dog bounded after it. They were both out of the room before the candlestick had stopped spinning on the floor._

_Out the inn's door and into the black night the little rat scurried, the spectral dog hounding it across the grounds of Hogsmeade. The wind pounded coldly against the dog's face in a rush of exhilaration. Sirius saw the rat try to run over the long bare hill for the forest, where there was an ice cube's chance in hell that he'd find the wretched Animagus. Quickly, Sirius regained his human form and took aim with his wand. A bright flash brought his quarry back to manhood, though he was no less of a rat, Sirius concluded. Another wave of the wand trussed the plump man with thin cords._

_He walked over to the struggling Peter and looked him straight in the eye. Softly, he said, "You wanted to become their Secret-Keeper, Peter. You were simply delighted at my idea, remember? You told me it would save them. Peter, I have a slight doubt in my mind that you becoming their only hope wouldn't really have helped Lily and James much at all, would it?"_

_Peter shook his head in fear._

_"You were going to have them killed, Peter!" Sirius cried suddenly, his voice broken. "Their friend! And me…you wanted to frame me! How could you—" Sirius let out a sob. After a family like his, friendship was all that he'd believed in. His ideal. The strongest bond on earth. But now…he looked almost pleadingly at Peter, wanting it to not be true, wanting Peter to yell "only joking!" and it would all be right again. "How could you?"_

_"P-p-please, Sirius, h-have mercy. I was scared…he is so strong, S-s-sirius." _

_"You had no mercy for James. Don't expect any better from me, Wormtail." Sirius drew his wand. "Better to die for James than to betray him," Sirius said in a shaky voice. Peter was unnerved by the glint of the moonlight on the tall man's face—it was wet. He was crying—sobbing. He knelt on the ground suddenly and Peter's eyes darted around to an escape route, any escape route. _

_"Better to kill for him than let scum like you walk free!" Sirius's voice was strong again, and he raised his head, his face stark white and furious. "Better to kill!" The wand pointed to the quivering Peter Pettigrew. "Avada—"_

_"James wouldn't want me dead!" Peter shouted. "James—James wouldn't want you to go to Azkaban instead of me," the plump man wheedled desperately. Sirius stopped. And suddenly it felt as if James were there, and James wouldn't…James wouldn't…_

_"James wouldn't let me kill," Sirius murmured. "He wouldn't let me." He sat down in the long grass and waited serenely, in an unnerving way, with the traitor until Remus showed up, having heard the ruckus at the inn and now perplexed at why one of his best friends had chased another through the outskirts of Hogsmeade. _

_An hour later, Sirius watched the Ministry lead Peter away into the night—to Azkaban. "Grab your cloak," he said to Remus. _

_"What?"_

_"Grab your cloak." Sirius looked out the window into the dark sky. "James will want to know about this," he finished grimly. He had a good hour left before his fragile self-control dwindled down into a fit of rage. _

_Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew were old friends._

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Good? Bad? Ugly? Review! (If these author notes are starting to get annoying—and I don't fancy writing forty of them—do you want me to just post each chapter and not write notes?)


	10. Lilac Bloomers

Big high fives go out to: Weirdlyyours, DCoD, fifespice (a LOT), hermiones mirror twin, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and firewolfalpha.

Special thanks goes out to firewolfalpha for plugging me at fictionalley, which I am eternally grateful for—didn't think anyone gave that much of a damn.

And here is why the summary included that random bit about bloomers. Short but I loved it, so enjoy:

Chapter Ten: Lilac Bloomers

Harry stumbled into the dormitory, followed by an equally clumsy Malfoy. "You stumbled!" Malfoy giggled.

"But you stumbled first!" Harry cried out jovially. Both boys collapsed on Harry's bed and roared with laughter.

Professor Flitwick really ought to rethink his lesson on Cheering Charms. An overdose could be a dangerous thing. But for now all Harry could think about was how funny his day'd been, especially when they'd tripped that bushy-haired girl on the way to Potions. This sent him into a fresh wave of giggles. Malfoy flipped over on the mattress and said, "Why, Harry dear, is this the state you keep your bedclothes in? Dreadful, dreadful!" He picked up a pillow and whacked Harry round the head with it.

"Oy!" Harry yelled, though not at all upset. Who could be upset? No one should be upset, or downset, or sideset, Harry thought. But he was rudely interrupted by another whack to the head. This time, something hard inside the pillowcase slipped out onto his lap. "Ow," Harry said rather inconsequentially.

Then he noticed what the thing was. "Why, Draco, look!" He giggled. "It's your dear old diary that your dear old dad sent you a few dear old weeks ago, it is!" The roars of laughter were subsiding, but the giggles remained. Harry snatched out a quill. " 'Dear Diary'," he proclaimed grandly as he wrote. " 'My good friend Harry is quite the dashing fellow' "—a giggle—" 'and I do declare I shall never look quite as good as the chap.' "

Malfoy chuckled and swiped at the diary, but Harry leapt off the bed and continued loudly: " 'Moreover, I seem to be taking a penchant towards wearing large, frilly lilac bloomers under my robe. I find they are quite good for my' "—Harry paused, then laughed. "Your diary's broken, Malfoy."

Malfoy giggled. "Broken?"

"Broken, broken, broken, bloken, blocknen, bogninny!" Harry crowed. "It's eating the ink!"

Malfoy snatched the diary and took a look. He scribbled on the diary with a quill, then grinned cheerfully as the ink disappeared. Then Malfoy blinked. "Look what it's doing."

Harry craned his head over the other boy's shoulder. The diary read, "_Who is this_?" Harry gaped as the diary ate up the words. "Did you write that?" he asked Malfoy.

Malfoy giggled. "No, I didn't, Potter. The diary wrote it."

The two boys looked at each other. Then they collapsed into giggles. Growing bored of the old book, they threw it in the air and began dancing a wild jig on Harry's bed that lasted well into dinner.

An hour later, exhausted and aching in the diaphragms, they collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. At the foot of Harry's bed lay the diary.

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Basically, any and all slashy hints are merely placed there for the happiness of me and my betas, who are horribly fangirly and love that sort of thing. Who am I kidding, so do I.

Make fff happy and leave a review.


	11. Dangerous Ideas

These people get love: Weirdlyyours, DCoD, DivineDarkness, fifespice, Poetic License, and firewolfalpha.

Here's a short little chapter that was meant to give more insight on a certain white-blond family of purebloodedness and smuggery (props to clam chowder for inventing the word 'smuggery' by the way).

Chapter Eleven: Dangerous Ideas

_Malfoy prodded at the still body of the owl. "It's not moving," he said matter-of-factly._

_His father, so tall and imposing even as he sat in an armchair, rolled his eyes at the boy over his _Daily Prophet_. "It's dead, Draco."_

"_But I don't want it to be dead, it delivers all the sweets from Uncle Hibredes."_

"_We'll get a new one, son. Now stop interrupting me."_

_Draco thought about a new owl delivering his sweets, and began to cry. It wasn't the same. "Father, I don't want it to be dead. Make it not dead!"_

"_Don't be foolish. You can't bring something back to life. Once it's gone, it's gone, Draco. I'm not about to start practicing Necromancy to bring your bloody owl back from the dead," Lucius Malfoy hissed._

"_The Ministry of Magic should make a law against dying," Malfoy asserted through his tears. "They should make it so if you die, you go to Azkaban."_

_His young son's new conviction was a total paradox, but instead of rolling his eyes, the elder Malfoy stared at the gilded wall across from him. "A man had such ideas once." He looked directly at his son and warned him, "Dangerous ideas. He's dead because of them now, boy."_

"_Who was he, Father?"_

"_We don't speak his name, Draco. We called him the Dark Lord."_

"_And he didn't like death?"_

_Lucius smiled grimly. "Not his own, at the very least. He was somewhat more liberal with that of others."_

"_He doesn't sound so bad. But I bet he died anyway," Draco said, voice bitter._

_Lucius' smile turned a little sinister, but the young boy didn't notice. "Not completely, Draco. Not completely."_

_Had the boy not gone back to miserably prodding his dead owl and instead realized that Lucius had just contradicted everything he'd told him about death, he would have seen his father's eyes alight on a bookshelf near the armchair, settling on a small shabby book nestled in among the tomes of Dark Magic and evil spells._

_From this point of view, it was hard to tell which was the more dangerous, the little book or the ominous volumes looming over it. But Lucius knew._

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Cue the ominous music…I must say, little ickle Malfiekins makes me think of Shirley Temple or toddler!Mr. Burns from the Simpsons.

FFF, she can be loud and rude  
About getting her precious fic reviewed  
Even when a chapter is boring or lewd.  
It's true, it's true, she loves reviews  
They make her giddy and enthused  
Won't you leave FFF a lovely review?

Lo, my rhyming skills! (Yes, I am aware I rhymed reviews with review.)


	12. Definite Possibilities

Muchas gracias go out to: DCoD, fifespice, weirdlyyours, Poetic License, Weasleylover35753, and DivineDarkness. I love you all madly!

And now, the much-loved morning-after scene. Much slashy subtext insues.

Chapter Twelve: Definite Possibilities

Harry stirred on the bed, groaning. It was his bed; he could tell from the wrinkled sheets. Finding Draco Malfoy sprawled out beside him did not seem to fit the previous fact. He was quite alarmed for a few seconds before he remembered the Cheering Charms of the previous night. He tried to rouse Malfoy, only to find that all the laughter from yesterday had completely and utterly wrecked his vocal cords. But he needn't have bothered.

"Potter," came Malfoy's hoarse voice. "What am I doing in your bed?"

"W-well, really, Malfoy," Harry managed to slip out for the sake of wit. "You should ask questions like that _before_ you get on the ride." Harry rolled onto his back.

"Malfoy…what did we DO last night?"

"Oh, so I can't ask stupid questions, but it's alright for you to rephrase them and ask them then?"

"To put it in a nutshell, yes, that's right."

"Errr…well, we were feeling very happy, I remember," Malfoy mused. Harry turned his head to see the other boy's forehead wrinkle in thought. "I think you wrote in my diary about bloomers…Potter, what in Merlin's name is the matter with you?"

For Harry had just paled and sat up quickly. "We wrote in the diary?"

"Yeah…"

Harry could remember that he was forgetting something rather vital. Oh, how useful, he thought disdainfully.

Malfoy got up with a sigh. "I'm going to put on some fresh robes, Potter. Don't miss me too much."

Alone within the green curtains of his fourposter, Harry stretched and was about to start changing himself when Malfoy's face poked back into his sanctum. Startled, Harry fell off the bed and lay in a heap.

"Potter, did we somehow wake up in the middle of the night and raid the kitchens?"

Harry stared up at him from the floor, dumbfounded. "Why would you ask me that?" As an answer, Malfoy drew back the curtain and Harry set his eyes on an impressive hoard of pastries and fruits.

"Well, it's a definite possibility, now that you mention it."

Malfoy laughed and left him alone again.

Propping himself up, Harry's hand brushed against something rough lying beside him. His heart beat faster as it always did whenever the blasted diary was involved, and he picked it up. I'm overreacting, he thought. It's a damn diary some bloke chucked because diaries are no bloody good to anyone. Well, he smirked, maybe they have some use. What exactly had he written down here about frilly bloomers last night?

A minute later, he called out: "Draco?"

After a few moments, Malfoy called back to him suspiciously, "Potter, I think there's something seriously wrong here."

"Draco—did we really write in this? Did we really?"

"Yes, about utter nonsense." Harry's hangings ripped open and Malfoy stood there, dressed and perplexed. "You called me Draco, Potter. Now, I'm all for breaking a rule here and there, but really, this just crosses the line."

"You're absolutely sure we wrote in this?"

Malfoy's face took on an irritated expression and he threw his hands up in defeat. "Yes, we bloody wrote in the bloody diary. Get dressed, Potter." He turned to leave but Harry called him back.

"Who's the smartest in our year?"

"What, you like your friends brainy now?"

"Don't be a prat; I hang around you, don't I?"

"Alright, Potter, no need for stinging words. It's that nasty Ravenclaw girl," Malfoy drawled. "Granger, her name was. Mudblood."

"Don't call them that," Harry chided automatically, but his mind was instantly thrown elsewhere, for he had just remembered that the diary had not only eaten his words…

It had written back.

That night after dinner, he pocketed a few dungbombs and pulled out his father's map, then plonked down in the empty common room and scoured it for one particular name.

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Huzzah! Plot, ho! Um, avast, mateys.

Knock, knock.

_Who's there?_

Leeva.

_Leeva who?_

Leeva review!

Oh, the lameness to which I stoop…


	13. Smart

I am vair vair grateful to the fans: Nutz Nina, fifespice, DCoD, Eternally-Blackrose-Yours, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and weirdlyyours.

Ah, I think this might be the longest chapter yet. Woot. Someone has told me it's probably wise to not put author's notes at the bottom, so I'll give that a try. Enjoy…

Chapter Thirteen: Smart

Hermione was having a harrowing day.

In double Potions with the Hufflepuffs—dim lot, she'd thought—she'd been paired with the redhead boy she'd seen in Flitwick's class some time ago. Her potion was finished halfway through class, so she occupied herself by watching the boy fumble with his own. He noticed and glared back at her, his ears reddening. "Something funny? Think you're smarter than me, do you?"

She started, but then replied just as nastily, "Of course I do—your potion's supposed to be purple. Not," she added as she glanced into his cauldron, "yellow."

The redhead threw up his hands in exasperation and dumped the potion into his flagon in defeat. "Maybe next time, you could make yourself helpful instead of being a snot," he snapped, and left to go hand in his work. Hermione had glared at his back.

I'm not a snot, she had wanted to shout. But the fact remained that the boy had made her angrier than she could remember.

After class, Hermione had skipped dinner and patrolled the corridors outside the Ravenclaw common room. She'd finished her rounds and was returning to her dormitory when Professor Flitwick ran into her and fell over with a squeak. She helped him up and asked, "Are you alright, Professor?"

He nodded and replied, "I was looking for you, Miss Granger. Someone's let off a lot of dungbombs near the Astronomy Tower and Mr. Filch has taken to bed rather early tonight. I was wondering if you could try to find the culprit…"

She frowned. Filch, going to sleep instead of prowling the castle for nighttime wanderers? "I can try, sir, but with all respect, they've probably left."

Flitwick smiled in a wrinkled way and said cheerfully, "There's no one else I could think of—I know how responsible to your duties you are, Miss Granger."

She couldn't help but smile. "I'll go, Professor. Do get some sleep."

The halls were already dark. Much as she wouldn't admit it, the shadows made her nervous. Something about this was fishy. Most mischief-makers let off dungbombs in crowded places, not in halls that were surely deserted at this time of night. She brandished her wand, and the woody texture of it in her hand promised power and safety. Hermione relaxed.

The next moment, a hand was covering her mouth and someone was holding her in place. "Mmf!" she squealed.

'Sorry about this, but I didn't really know how else I'd get you to listen, er…Hermione." Her captor's voice was unfamiliar, and his grip was blocking her use of her wand. Now Hermione was panicking.

"Listen, this is a pretty brutal way to go about things. If I let you go, do you promise not to scream or hex me or something?"

She nodded. He let her mouth go and she opened it to scream, but he apparently knew she'd lied and clapped his hand back where it had been. She heard him chuckle. "Now now, you promised. I don't want anything from you except a little help. Shall we try this again?"

She sighed and nodded again. He let her go altogether now and she turned to face him, rubbing her wrist and making sure he could see her wand.

He was of medium build and had messy dark hair that stood randomly. His eyes behind his glasses were bright green and very…alive. "Don't worry," he said. "I know you're the smartest in the year. I'm not going to try anything stupid. I just need your help on something."

Hermione gulped and nodded. "What is it?"

"I—I have this…Have you ever heard of a book that swallows what you write on it?"

Hermione fiddled with her sleeve. "The different enchantments you can put on a book are infinite. I'm sure there are books out there like that…"

He stepped closer to her. "What about books that talk back?"

She was startled. "Er…well, I'm sure it's possible, but it must be very difficult to enchant a book that way. I don't think a fifth year could—"

He waved his hand in dismissal. "I didn't do it. That part doesn't matter…I just need to know if it's possible…"

"Well," she said, then hesitated. "Yes. Yes, it's possible. The ability it takes to enchant something of this nature all depends on how smart it is."

The boy wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "What d'you mean, smart?"

"Er…how much willpower it has. You know. How much it can think for itself. Like a calculator, that's not very smart—it only does what it's told."

He was even more confused than before. "Calculator?" Hermione decided he definitely didn't have much Muggle exposure.

"It's a little machine that adds up the numbers you put in it," she explained, as simply as possible. "What I'm saying is, the smarter it is, the harder it would have been to make it that way. If it says things like 'today is whateversday' or 'there are twenty three species of whatsits in Africa', it's not very—"

"What if…" The boy's voice broke off, and he licked his lips. "What if it asks you about yourself?"

"Er…it all depends on what it says after you tell it, I suppose," Hermione offered. This had to be the strangest conversation she'd ever had, even if she counted all the talks on magical theory.

The boy nodded. His eyes were distant now, as if he were thinking hard. Then his head snapped up and she started.

"Listen," he said urgently. "D'you think you could…help me with something?"

Hermione raised her eyebrow. "I thought that's what I've been doing the whole time."

The boy laughed for the first time, and suddenly Hermione recognized him. For a second she was plunged into her first embarrassing memory of Hogwarts, when she'd asked two boys about a flying turtle of theirs. The boy hadn't been mean to her directly, but he had enjoyed watching her humiliate herself along with his friend. Hermione was suddenly more cautious.

"I mean, would you look at something for me? With me?" The boy smiled shyly at her, but Hermione felt it was rather staged. He hadn't seemed so shy when he'd grabbed her in the dark. Still, the small piece in her that she kept in a dark and dusty place, the piece that yearned for friendship—even a little camaraderie—scolded her into a pleasing response.

"All right," she said uncertainly.

The boy grinned. "Great. You have no idea what a hassle it was slipping Sleeping Draught into that barmy old Filch's goblet."

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	14. Apart

I send my love to: Snow-Leopard-Patronus, DivineDarkness, DCoD, fifespice, and weirdlyyours for reviewing the last chapter. You're all amazing.

Here we go, a short little chapter coming back to our favorite red-haired sidekick and showing a bit of insight on how the diary business has been affecting the friendship between Harry and Malfoy. I hope you read it, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you review it XD

Chapter Fourteen: Apart

The red-haired boy frowned as Professor McGonagall explained the method by which one turns a fire poker into a stork. Ron did not know why he'd want to turn anything into a stork, nor why a fire poker would be at all on hand for the job. All he knew right now was the feeling of sleep coming on and the soft skin of his hand cupping his drooping head.

"Mister Weasley, if you would please join us in the lesson…?" McGonagall asked him sharply. He nodded, reddening, and she went back to her teaching.

He turned his face to the Ravenclaw girl he'd been, unfortunately, paired with often. He was surprised when she didn't sneer or smile smugly at his humiliation. Instead she looked rather preoccupied, and come to think of it, there were large bags under her eyes.

Ron nearly fell out of his chair when he realized a second later that she—Granger—hadn't answered a single question all of class.

He had just come to the conclusion that something was definitely off when he chided himself for being so seemingly interested in that—that snot. She can bugger off for all I care, he thought self-righteously.

Once the class was over, he watched the bushy-haired girl rush off much faster than usual. Rolling his eyes, he spotted his friend Susan Bones' long black plait in the masses and ran to catch up with her.

He immediately slammed into someone who'd just walked slowly around the corridor. He apologized and helped them steady themselves when he heard them drawl, "Muggle-lover, is it?"

It was that stuck-up Slytherin he always worked so hard to avoid. Damn.

"My name is Ron," he said firmly despite his uneasiness. "Get it right next time, git."

Any other time he'd met the boy in the halls, the Slytherin had laughed off the insults as if Ron wasn't worth his time. But today Ron saw something snap and crackle in his eye, and suddenly he found himself on the floor. A moment later, there was a throb in his jaw.

Ron growled and tackled the white-blonde boy around the legs. They rolled on the floor, throwing punches at each other until someone finally pried them apart. As Ron gathered himself up and wiped the blood off his lip, he saw it was the dark-haired sidekick.

"What in hell are you doing, Malfoy?" the new arrival asked.

"What's it look like I was doing?" The voice was hostile. "You're a right hypocrite, Potter. Who says you can go around picking fights with Weasels and I can't?"

The boy's voice was full of challenge and edged with a bitterness Ron was sure had nothing to do with him. The darker boy looked at Malfoy with an odd glint in his eye, as if trying to read him. "Come on," he finally said, tugging at the fair-haired boy's arm. The pair walked off without giving another glance to Ron, he noted almost wryly, as if he were a part of the scenery like the wall and the carpet. It wasn't surprising. He stood there, not waiting for anything, feeling calm and serene and apart watching the place where the friends disappeared around the corner.

"Right old prats," he finally said to the long-empty hallway.

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	15. Hyper Sensitive Twit

Thumbs up at: fifespice, weirdlyyours, Weasleylover35753, DCoD, Eternally-Blackrose-Yours, firewolfalpha, and Snow-Leopard Patronus for all your lovely reviews.

Alas for Harry and Malfoy—there seems to be trouble in paradise. When I was writing this, the chapters seemed so much longer. Hope you enjoy, young grasshoppers…

Chapter Fifteen: Hyper-Sensitive Twit

Harry stormed into the dormitory, tugging a resisting Malfoy behind him. "Out," he snapped to the inhabitants, who didn't need to be told twice to scurry away. He shoved Malfoy onto a random bed and started: "Now, what is so bloody wrong with you that you're picking fights with random passerby?"

Malfoy scowled and twisted a sheet around in his hands. Finally, he said coolly, "Weasels aren't random. They're vermin. So there."

Harry looked at him in disbelief. "You're the strangest git…"

"Calling me strange? I'm not the one who's been grubbing around with a little Mudblood—"

"Oh, come off it! What, do you think that just because I've met her once or twice she's suddenly my new best mate or something?" Harry cried in exasperation. Malfoy said nothing and continued tormenting the sheet in his hand. Harry sighed and, after waiting several drawn-out moments, turned away and stared at the wall. He traced the cold stones with his fingertips, feeling the silence between them becoming a greater distance than oceans and mountains. This was Malfoy, he reasoned. Malfoy being my best friend, being a hyper-sensitive twit.

He turned around, tired of the silence, and Malfoy stood abruptly and faced him. "There's something you're not telling me, and you've been telling her," he accused.

Harry had had enough and rolled his eyes. "You're barking mad." He turned to leave, but Malfoy gripped his shoulder and whirled him about.

"You're going to tell me what you've been up to behind my back, Potter, and you're going to tell me now," he hissed.

Harry tried to pry his hand off. "I haven't been _up_ to anything, you twit! Now stop being paranoid and let me go." He overpowered him and pushed him back down. "What've you got such a problem with? She's just helping me with something—"

"Something?" Malfoy's tone was cynical.

"Something—for school," Harry faltered. "Brainy…er…Ravenclaw-ish somethings, that's all."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Malfoy's voice had calmed and stilled, the way a raging sea can suddenly tranquilize itself.

Harry sighed. "I didn't exactly want my best friend to know I need tutoring on my Herbology work, y'know." No response—back to the sheet-twisting. Harry leaned against a bedpost and watched his friend carefully.

"Herbology's rubbish," Malfoy said after a while, but his voice sounded pleased from the mention of best friends. Harry silently congratulated himself on such notable acting.

"C'mon, we may as well finish the Potions homework," Harry said, relieved. As he went over to get parchment out of his trunk, he missed the shrewd and almost angry gaze that was Malfoy watching his back.

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	16. Ravenclawish Somethings

Dedicated to Eternally-Blackrose-Yours, who, by some strange act of fate, actually gives a damn. About updates, I mean. Other cool people include: firewolfalpha, Nutz Nina, fifespice, DCoD, weirdlyyours, and Weasleylover35753.

Oh, and does it seem like ff-dot-net has a lot more ads nowadays? Hmm. Anyway, here is the aforementioned update. Hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Sixteen: Ravenclaw-ish Somethings

"It isn't working, then?" Potter asked warily.

Hermione's forehead creased in frown lines. "No, and I've tried it five times now. We can definitely rule out any sort of invisible ink."

"Isn't there some kind of spell?"

"I tried _Specialis Revelio_, but it didn't work either, remember? And unless we know enough about it, I can't look for a specific spell."

Potter sighed and rubbed his cheek.

Hermione watched him cautiously. Considering the fact that he was apparently a Slytherin and best friends with that mean pale boy, he was astonishingly calm and friendly. That didn't mean she trusted him, however much she wanted to.

"Have you tried…" Hermione trailed off. "You know…writing in it some more?"

His head snapped up. "No. Should I be?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, no. That's why I asked. It'd be dangerous to try and communicate with it before we know any more about it. It, er…well, it might be dangerous," the girl finished lamely.

Potter nodded, but he was once again lost in thought. He seemed to do that a lot, Hermione had noticed not without some annoyance. She looked out the window and noticed the sky darkening.

Potter apparently had noticed as well. "Look, I've got to go, alright? Thanks for all the help." He smiled tiredly. Even then Hermione felt he was acting. Would he be here, sitting with her, if she wasn't top of their year? Something told her, as he left the empty classroom they'd met in, that Harry Potter had forgotten all about her once he set foot outside the door.

Hermione could expect no better.

She gathered up her books and left as well. It was nearly dinnertime, and she spent a few happy moments thinking of warm meals, not noticing that someone had passed her in the hall and then stopped abruptly.

"Oh. It's you. Granger, isn't it?" a voice sneered.

Hermione focused. It was that pale boy, Potter's friend, being strangely civil. Hermione believed this was around the first time in all five years at the school when he'd called her by her name and not 'Mudblood'. Perhaps Potter…no, he wouldn't intervene on her behalf with his best friend.

"Yes. It's me," she said cautiously. "Do you…do you need something?"

He glanced into the classroom she'd been in, then leaned against the wall with his arms folded. "Funny how accommodating an empty classroom is for Herbology work, eh?" he asked coolly.

She blinked in confusion. "Herbology work?" she replied slowly.

He said nothing, but a look of triumph had come into his eyes at her bewilderment. It was at the same time a bitter look, and Hermione didn't like it. All she'd seen of this boy told her that by this point in their meeting he'd be throwing around insults and punishing her for walking crooked.

Then it hit her—Potter had told his friend that he'd been seeing her for Herbology work. Most other girls would have broken down and cried right in front of this Slytherin in her situation, but Hermione Granger was a logical being. She'd been helping Potter with his strange book, not anything in the least romantic. Therefore, she reasoned as the blonde boy watched her wordlessly, it was not _her_ that Potter was hiding. It was the diary.

In the face of this sneering boy, Hermione almost laughed. He caught the twitch in her face and moved closer.

"Why are you laughing, Granger? Something funny?"

She shook her head and was about to reply when a new voice startled them.

"Er," it said.

They both turned. It was the redheaded Hufflepuff that she'd been working with a lot. In his hand he held a copy of the Transfiguration textbook. Her copy.

"Sorry to interrupt. Only, I think I took your copy instead of mine after class and I thought you'd want it back…" he said in a bored voice.

She picked the Transfiguration book out of the stack in her arms, and sure enough the insides said "Ron Weasley" and were filled with numerous doodles of Professor McGonagall's head on various animals. For the second time that day, Hermione nearly laughed. She walked over to Ron—er, Weasley—and exchanged books. "Thanks," she said.

"No problem." By then the redhead had noticed the tension and awkwardness in the hall and asked, "I guess I'll go on to dinner, then—"

"—No, it's alright. I was just leaving. I'll come with you," Hermione said, glancing at the unreadable Malfoy.

Weasley stared at her a little, but recovered and said, "Oh. Er, alright, I s'pose."

Hermione gladly left the brooding Slytherin behind her, though she was sure he watched the two walk off. Determined to get her mind off the strange encounter, she focused on the tall boy beside her. He was walking with a rather pleased expression on his face. Admittedly, this was the first time she'd been civil to him, but she owed it for being rescued from Potter's friend.

"I'm actually a bit surprised you didn't notice you had the wrong book," he said. "You're usually on top of the whole scholarly bit," he explained.

"Oh, I've been a little preoccupied," she said as they rounded a corner. "Need more sleep, I suppose."

He nodded and fell silent. Hermione felt the need to say something nice, so tentatively she began: "I…I noticed you haven't really been getting the Summoning Charm down so well…" Weasley jerked his face her way, and she could see him getting angry. "What I mean is…you know, if you'd like some help or something sometime. You really did me a big favor back there." She shivered. "That Malfoy boy can be intimidating."

Weasley scrutinized her for a moment, then gave a slight smile of acceptance. "Thanks. I'll remember that. And he's not all that scary," he added as the walked into the Great Hall where dinner had already begun.

She cocked her head. "No?"

He waved his hand. "Nah. Did you see that split he had in his lip? I did that a few days ago."

For the first time that day Hermione's laugh escaped her lips.

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	17. No One Special

Thanks to all my gentle reviewers: Weasleylover35753, weirdlyyours, firewolfalpha, fifespice, DCoD, and Eternally-Blackrose-Yours.

Alas for Harry! His buddy ole pal Malfoy knows the truth about his "herbology lesson." Will Malfoy get to the truth? Will Harry reveal all? Join us next time on 'The Young and the Wizardous."

Or you could just read this chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter Seventeen: No One Special

The truth was, Harry thought that same night as he returned to the dungeons after dinner, Malfoy was not behaving too unreasonably. Well, he _was_ behaving too unreasonably, but not completely. Harry had been meeting Granger quite frequently these past few weeks. It had been fruitless, he knew bitterly, and now he was convinced that he was done with the girl. Spells and magical objects wouldn't help with this damn diary.

Not only had Granger been no help, but his secret had also succeeded in putting a rift between his best friend and himself. Harry groaned with frustration as he remembered how distant they'd become in less than a month.

And Malfoy hadn't been at dinner. This was Malfoy, his best friend, who enjoyed lavishing himself every chance possible and would never skip a feast.

Unless, Harry thought as he said the password to the cold wall, Malfoy was angry with him. More likely than not.

He found the boy sitting in bed against the headboard as if he'd been waiting for him. "Hello, Potter," Malfoy said coolly. "Enjoy your dinner?"

Harry nodded uncertainly.

Malfoy smirked. "Needed to fill that hungry belly after so much Herbology work, I reckon." The boy leaned back and put his hands against his head. "Strange thing about me," he said nonchalantly towards the ceiling, "I prefer having my Herbology lessons outside. Separates me from the common man, I s'pose."

Harry, who had up till now been watching him uneasily, sighed. "Look, I know this sounds weak, but it really isn't—"

"—What it looks like? You're right, that is pretty weak."

"Malfoy, we're not meeting up and snogging or anything, and even if we were, why should it matter to you?"

Malfoy sat up quickly and said, "Because you're not s'posed to keep that sort of thing from your best friend! What are you playing at, sneaking around behind my back and doing who knows what!" He stopped and took a breath. "And if you're _not _snogging, then what the bloody hell else can you be up to!" Malfoy cried in exasperation.

Harry sighed and sat beside him on the bed. "It's stupid. You'll think I'm mad…" He looked at Malfoy, but his expression was only curious. Harry plowed on then, "It's the diary. All right? No bloody snogging, no Herbology work either—just the diary."

Malfoy looked confused and somehow apathetic at the same time. Harry nearly laughed—only Malfoy could pull this expression. "The diary? That raggedy thing dad sent me?"

Harry nodded. "There's just something about it…I mean, your dad sending it out of nowhere was weird in itself, and…" He paused, a little embarrassed. "You remember when we wrote in it, er, that night we had those Cheering—"

Malfoy cut him off. "I remember. What about it?"

"I checked it afterward, and there was nothing in it."

Malfoy's face paled a little. "What?"

"You heard me," Harry said sharply. "Nothing. No babble about lilac bloomers or how handsome Harry Potter is. Nothing."

A bit of the color drained out of Malfoy's face, but he asked rationally, "So? It…it could just have some absorption charm on it or something. It could—"

"Draco, listen to me!" Harry cried with an edge in his voice. "If that were all, do you think I'd be so stuck on it?" Malfoy snorted, but Harry continued, "I might have been really tired or something, but I could have—I could have sworn that it…it _wrote back _to me, Draco. And, well, when your father owns something a little weird, I don't expect it to be of the cute pink bunny land variety of weird, if you catch my drift."

Malfoy didn't comment on the violation of the surname rule or the crack on his father as he usually would, but only looked at Harry a little nervously.

"Are you sure?' he asked. Harry nodded. "Right. Let me get this straight, then. You've been using this unwitting Granger person to further your own ends?" Malfoy asked him.

Harry nodded.

Malfoy laughed and threw his arm around Harry. "Carried out like a true Slytherin!" he proclaimed slyly. And Harry felt the awkward tension that had haunted the pair the past few weeks burn away.

"So, go on. Did you learn anything?" Malfoy asked conspiratorially.

"No. It wasn't invisible ink, and it wasn't hidden by a spell. Who knows, maybe I just imagined the whole thing…"

"Come on, Potter, haven't you got anything else to go by? Like where it's from or who owned it…rather rough with it, weren't they?" Malfoy suggested with amusement.

Harry grinned, then replied soberly, "All I know is it was written by this bloke Tom Riddle." He glanced at Malfoy. "Your father ever talk about him?"

Malfoy stretched out on the bed and thought for a few moments. Then he turned to Harry and said, "Nah. Never heard of him before. You think he was important?"

"I dunno…he got an award for services for the school, I know that much. But beyond that…" Harry sighed.

Malfoy got up from the bed and brushed himself off. "Look, you need to stop thinking about this sodding diary for a while and just relax. Riddle's probably no one special, just a sad and pathetic man who had nothing better to do than make odd books. Think about the more important things, smell the roses, paint your toenails," he drawled. "You've been really off lately."

"I know, I know. Oh, and speaking of more important things, I brought you some food down from the Great Hall. Here." Harry dumped a treacle tart and a chicken leg into Malfoy's lap. "Eat up, sunshine," he said, smirking. "I can't believe you were so miffed at me you skipped dinner."

"I know," Malfoy said through stuffed cheeks. "Very unlike a Malfoy, isn't it?" The blonde boy swallowed contentedly and turned to Harry once more with a sober expression. "Listen, Potter, if you really can't stop thinking about this thing, why don't you just write in it?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You're advising me to do something potentially dangerous and risky instead of burying myself in research?"

Malfoy shot him a look that plainly said, "What did you expect?" and Harry felt a comforting familiarity return to the room they occupied. That was, until Vincent Crabbe burst into it with Gregory Goyle in a headlock and the rest of the fifth year Slytherin boys trailed the two, jeering and laughing their heads off.

Malfoy patted Harry's elbow as the dormitory filled with din and Theodore Nott bumped the bedside cabinet into his shoulder. "Don't worry, Potter, I give it three months before I can mooch enough money out of father to add some sort of extension. Hell, we might even build our own tower, eh?"

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	18. Curious

Muchas gracias to: firewolfalpha, weirdlyyours, Esau, DCoD, fifespice, Weasleylover35753, Poetic License, Nutz Nina, DivineDarkness, and Eternally-Blackrose-Yours.

D'you know what that is? Ten reviewers, that's what that is, for a story that got like two reviews on its first chappie! I am _so_ grateful to you guys, you have no idea. I was really worried that everyone'd think this fic was worthless. (I hope I'm not jinxing myself by gushing about this in front of everyone.)

On that note, harhar, please enjoy one of our last remaining flashbacks.

Chapter Eighteen: Curious

_"See that witch, Harry?" Sirius muttered into Harry's ear as they walked down Diagon Alley. "That's Dolores Umbridge. Horriblest, nastiest witch you'll ever meet, my boy—not counting Bellatrix. Wrote all those werewolf codes, remember?"_

_Harry nodded uncertainly, watching the large toad of a woman waddling in front of them, pointed out by Sirius' bright eyes. _

"_Now that witch, boy, she's been given some high class Ministry job, but what she really deserves is a good swift kick in the—"_

"_Sirius!" Lupin swooped upon them and shooed the tall man away. "Lily and James said we could take him school shopping as long as you didn't have a bad influence—"_

_Sirius snorted with mirth. "Oh, go on, Moony, you old hypocrite. As if you haven't got anything 'bad influence-ish' to say about that Umbridge toad."_

_Flustered, Lupin walked ahead with his chin out, leading them to a shop signified with "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." Harry's heart leapt. Finally—his own wand. Hand-held power. _

_They were greeted by Mr. Ollivander, a man with silver eyes that bulged like rising mercury in old thermometers. "Pleasant afternoon?" he asked them softly. Lupin nodded and made a strained smile, throwing a dirty look at Sirius, who merely smiled innocently back. _

"_Pleasant," the tired looking man replied. "We're here for young Harry's wand."_

"_I remember your own, Mr. Lupin," Ollivander muttered. "Unicorn hair and yew, was it not? And you as well, Mr. Black. Those heartstrings of yours came from a particularly pesky dragon." Sirius grinned. The look on Lupin's face told the rest that he was hardly surprised at this piece of insight._

_Ollivander continued to reminisce in his velvety voice while he helped Harry go through wand after wand. Meanwhile, Sirius amused himself by enchanting the wands they'd discarded to dance the tango, much to Lupin's chagrin. They'd found one that had glowed a bit miserably made of unicorn hair and cherry wood, but it wasn't until Ollivander had handed Harry one made of holly and phoenix feather that sparks flew. _

"_Excellent, excellent!" Ollivander cried. "And I wouldn't do that, Mr. Black," he commented to Sirius, who naturally ignored him._

_Harry grinned at the wand in his hand. Mr. Ollivander drew close to him. "Curious, curious. Yes, very curious…I'd refrain from continuing with that, Mr. Black," he repeated. _

_Harry glanced into the lined face. "What's so curious?" he asked, a bit insulted. Was the man making fun of his wand?_

"_The phoenix, the very phoenix, that gave a feather for this wand gave another, you know. To the wand of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Mr. Potter." He chuckled when Harry gave him a rather odd look. "Oh, the young do not remember him, but we do, boy. Mr. Black…" he warned yet again. Lupin, standing beside Sirius, was too busy paying attention to this remark about "He-Who-Must-Have-Trouble-Being-Called" to reprimand him._

"_My parents never told me much about him…" Harry paused uncertainly. _

"_He did great things. Terrible, but great, you know."_

_Harry opened his mouth to ask how something could be terrible and great at the same time, but was interrupted by a loud BANG from Sirius' corner. _

"_Ah—shall we move on then?" the man asked brightly from among the pile of charred wands as Lupin groaned._

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	19. Black Hole

Here it is, the much-prolonged diary chapter. (Sorry I'm so late--FFDOTNET wouldn't let me upload anything till this morning.)

But first, thanks to the loyal reviewers: firewolfalpha, DivineDarkness, RoadtoRuin, Nonny, DCoD, Weasleylover35753, Nutz Nina, fifespice, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and Poetic License.

Anyhooooo…diary chapter it is!

Chapter Nineteen: Black Hole

It was true that upon confessing to Malfoy, his and Harry's friendship had resumed its regular course. However, the diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle remained in Harry's pillow case, shabby and fragile as ever but beating a stronger and stronger tattoo into his brain. Harry did not know why the diary, the stupid, useless diary, had such an effect on him, but he knew that sooner or later it would drive him mad.

This probably explained why, late one night as he lay awake listening to Goyle's snores and Malfoy's mumbling, Harry slid his glasses on and twisted around to his pillowcase. He slipped the diary out and stroked one finger against the spine, a softly black shape barely visible in the darkness.

"_Lumos_," Harry whispered. Someone groaned and stirred, and Harry quickly dove under the covers—the wandlight had been too bright. Laying his wand on the pillow, Harry groped around the nightstand for a quill.

With fingers that trembled unreasonably, he wrote in: "Who are you?"

And the words disappeared, along with the boy's breath.

New ones took their place:

"_I'm Tom Riddle. Who are you?"_

Harry shut the book with a bang.

No sodding way, he thought.

"Harry?" A voice mumbled in the darkness. "Harry, what are you doing under there?" With a bit of a shock that added to his startled state a bit like a small wave adds to a tsunami, Harry realized it was one of those rare times when Malfoy called him by his first name.

"Just some homework," he whispered. "Go back to bed."

With a mumble of assent and some parting words ("Only purple stripes, please"), Malfoy obliged. Harry licked his lips and cracked the diary open. Seeing no words, he opened it all the way.

Empty.

No way, he thought. Curiosity got the better of him and he picked the quill up again.

"How can you talk back?"Harry queried.

The ink faded and came again, this time saying:

"_Magic, of course." _

Harry frowned. That was real blunt and to the point. He tried again: "What are you?"

"I'm a memory—or rather, a collection of memories. And I think now that we know me, I should have the pleasure of knowing your name as well."

Harry licked his increasingly dry lips again. "Harry Potter."

The words took longer to come this time, and Harry felt as though the diary was thinking. Finally: _"Hello, Harry Potter. Am I at Hogwarts?"_

Harry, in shock at this coincidence, nodded; then realized that he was communicating with a diary, not a person, and wrote in "yes". Then, as afterthought, he wrote, "Did you go to school here too?"

"I did; I started in 1937."

Harry gave a low whistle despite his slightly shaken state, remembering a second later that of course Tom Riddle must have gone here if he'd won an award for services to the school. He could hear Malfoy cry out some gibberish about elephants at the next bed. Awkwardly, the boy tried to figure out what to write next. Should he tell Hermione Granger in the morning…?

"I've been trying to figure this diary out for a while now," he decided to scribble at last. The words gleamed accusingly in the diary before fading away.

"_It's a journal I preserved my memory in. I've led quite a life, as far as I know." _These lines were amused and Harry felt a growing liking for Riddle. He dipped his quill in the inkpot, adjusted his body for a long haul, and wrote in, "Tell me about it?"

The shabby diary seemed to smile in his hands, its cover so black it seemed to absorb the wandlight and become not solid matter but simply an absence of light.

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	20. Not a Peep

I thank all ye faithful: Nutz Nina, weirdlyyours, firewolfalpha, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, DCoD, DivineDarkness, Queen of Anonymity (you don't review much, but I'm glad that you're still reading, dear), and Poetic License.

I'm so sorry for all these late updates—ff-dot-net keeps telling me there's an error when I try to upload the chapters. Sorry.

See Malfoy. See Malfoy run…to breakfast. See Malfoy be jealous. See Malfoy be irrational. See Hermione go "WTF!" on Malfoy. Attack, Malfoy, attack. See FFF hope this chapter answers all the questions on how Malfoy really feels.

Chapter Twenty: Not a Peep

Malfoy had been having the strangest dream Friday night. A dark-haired boy only a little bit older than him had been stroking a long, brilliantly green snake and had snapped to the dreamer, "Don't touch him! He's mine." Malfoy had been about to respond by saying he didn't normally get friendly with snakes, but then the dancing elephants had arrived and offered him an impressive rack of sweaters. After that, things got fuzzy.

Now he tugged his robes on and ran a hand through his hair, feeling tired and groggy. Damn dreams, he thought.

"Potter!" he called. "C'mon, get up, you lazy bum."

Malfoy's principle was that it was simply his sacred duty to make sure that his friend was awake as early as he was so that they could suffer the pain of consciousness together. It was with this noble cause in mind that he made his way to Harry's bed and moved the hangings over. "Potter?" he called again.

Malfoy noticed with a little start that Harry's head wasn't in sight. He lifted the blankets up and saw the boy curled up, his wand lying next to his hand and the diary nestled in his arms. Apprehension kicked in. The blonde boy shook his friend's shoulder. "Come on, get up before I actually start getting my robes in a knot."

Harry's eyes opened slowly and he stirred. "Wassamatter?" he murmured.

"Get up," Malfoy said simply. "We'll miss breakfast."

Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Malfoy watched him shrewdly. "Long night?" he drawled—in the most suave manner possible, he thought assuredly.

Harry glanced up at him. "Er, no—"

"—You wrote in the diary, then?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Harry's face twisted disappointedly.

"It didn't do anything?" Malfoy wagered.

Harry shook his head. "Nah. Not a peep."

Malfoy grinned lazily. "Good. It's about time you got your mind off of that stupid thing." He took the diary and threw it haphazardly into Harry's trunk, carefully watching Harry's face for protest. None came, and Malfoy was reassured. "Nothing coming from my father is good for the health, Potter. You know that."

Harry nodded. "I know." He fell back into bed and sighed. "Lemme sleep a little more."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "As you like. Don't blame me when all the toast's gone." He walked down to breakfast feeling significantly cheerier. That diary business had been strange at the least, and he'd missed getting into trouble—or rather, closely dodging trouble—with Harry, knowing he'd rather spend his time with that rotting Ravenclaw and an old book than with him.

He scooped up a few pieces of toast and turned to leave—despite his cocky words, he would nonetheless bring Harry up some breakfast. Making his way back towards the dungeons, he spied a bobbing brown furball. Speak of the devil, Malfoy thought with a grin.

As they crossed, he smirked at her leeringly and she shot him an apprehensive glance. He turned to watch her go and called after her: "Bit early for prefect duty. Haven't you got anything else to do?" She didn't say anything or turn towards him, so he jabbed further: "He's thrown it away, girl. No more little meetings, then."

She looked back at him over her shoulder. "What?"

He reiterated carefully, as though she were slow: "Potter. Tossed the diary. Doesn't need you anymore."

She looked a little worried. "Did he figure it out?"

Malfoy felt the back of his neck heat up in agitation. "What's it matter? He's tossed it. Gone. So you can drop this whole thing. He doesn't need you anymore!" He heard someone talking loudly in the back of his head; with a start, he realized it was himself. When had his voice gotten so bloody loud?

The boy took a deep breath. Granger, immobile, watched him, seemingly torn between wanting to cart him off to St. Mungo's or running off. He didn't understand what was going on with him—only felt that any mention of the damn diary nowadays repelled him to the point of spite. Malfoy shook his head to clear it and walked off, still thinking, leaving a befuddled prefect girl in the hall behind him. He slammed the door to the dormitory once he got inside, startling Harry and Blaise Zabini, who were playing a game of Exploding Snap to ward off sleep lag.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked thickly.

Malfoy sat on his bed. "Nothing. Here. I brought you some toast."

Harry accepted the toast with a tired grin and Malfoy felt satisfied.

Sod the diary, he thought contentedly.

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	21. Chance

My love to: weirdlyyours, DracosDiva, Nutz Nina, DivineDarkness, DCoD, firewolfalpha, Poetic License, and Zombie Survivor (o friend, ye may be logged out, but ye be honored for your review here anyhow!).

Things to note: I still can't upload the next chapter, which is a bummer and I can't figure out what the hell's wrong with my account, so the next update may not come for a while. The stupid thing is it's all written up, so technically I could finish uploading everything in a few days if only ffnet wasn't being stupid. As it is, updates for now are left completely to chance. So put it on alert if you like.

Also, this is a little random, but I was reading about how all these fandom people attacked Cassie Claire's fanfiction (which has a major influence on me and probably a lot more of us) for allegedly plagiarizing books and shows. Which really pissed me off, because this is fanfiction , people. No one takes it seriously--it's all in good fun. Legality shouldn't be brought into is. Grrrr. Sorry. It just made me want to leave a nasty reply saying "LOSER" at the person's page. Goddamn...Anyhoo, here's a nice chapter about our favorite redhead.

Chapter Twenty-One: Chance

The morning sky was clear that Saturday, and that meant only one thing for Ron Weasley. He arose early, around dawn, and grabbed his old Cleansweep broomstick from his trunk.

The trick to being a shy little fool who could fly, but not in front of people, was to know when the grounds would be empty. On early Saturday mornings such as this, he'd come to discover in his past four years at Hogwarts, everyone (sane) was fast asleep, recuperating from the week's schedule. A perfect time for shy little fools.

The red-haired boy made his way across the great lawn of the castle, stopping at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and mounting his broomstick eagerly. He thought he heard a slight rustle of footsteps and a creak near the gamekeeper's hut, but dismissed it as he shot into the air. The wind, teasing his hair with soft fingers, assured him that he was the only one in the world right now.

His little sister Ginny once told him, in a surprisingly grave sort of tone (but then, that was Ginny—always said something extremely profound when you least expected it), that the best art is made when no one else is looking.

Ron Weasley had always been at his best when no one else was looking.

He glided over the treetops, letting his toes brush the tops of the pines—all that were left this close to December. A few birds shot out of their roosts at his approach and nearly ruined his perfect existence, but they were soon forgotten as the boy spiraled higher and higher towards the sun, nearly forgetting his entire setting except for that one word that kept running through his head. Higher. Higher. Higher…

Up there, Ron was perfect. Alone. Without expectations or restrictions. Just Ron.

But when he touched back down at the base of the trees, panting from exertion and red-faced from the wind, he was no longer alone.

-------------------------

Hermione watched the boy she'd come to know a little jump from fright when he turned around and saw her there.

"You! Did you Apparate here, or something?" he asked, scandalized.

Hermione eyed him dubiously. "Are you joking?"

He simply looked confused, so she heaved a sigh and explained, "You can't Apparate or Disapparate on school grounds. I thought everybody knew that."

The boy glared. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I was leaving Hagrid's and—"

"Hagrid?"

"The gamekeeper. He lives in that hut over th—"

"I know that. What I meant was, what are you doing _here_?" Weasley demanded.

Hermione was getting cross at this interrogation as if she'd walked onto something obscene. "Like I was saying, I was just leaving Hagrid's and I saw you shoot off into the air so I stayed and watched." He was eyeing her suspiciously now, so she added, "You're very good, you know. Precise, if not particularly fast—"

"—It's faster up there," he told her breathlessly and looked skyward. "It's always better up there, you see." He turned back to her and the angry gleam was gone from his eyes. "Do you fly?"

She shook her head. "I'm terrified of it, actually. Never been on a broom before."

He raised a fiery eyebrow. "Never? You're telling my you've never flown in your life?"

"No." She thought for a second. "If you're so barmy about flying, why are you doing it now and here? Why don't you play Quidditch for your house?"

His gaze returned to the sky once more. "Dunno. It's nice out here—I'm not really that good at Quidditch, just the flying. Besides…don't like people watching me. I get a little nervous."

Hermione watched him, unsure what to say. She ventured: "I'm sure it's just the nerves. I bet you'd make a very good Keeper. You've got the grace and all—"

He faced her and laughed. "Yeah, I'd make a great Keeper. Tell you what, I'll become Keeper when the school gets overrun by serpents from Hell. We'll talk then, shall we?" he asked good-naturedly. Hermione grinned a crooked smile. He veered off the subject, then. "Listen, prefect, no one can go through life without flying at least once." He clambered back onto his broomstick and motioned her to sit in front of him.

Hermione shook her head, anxious. "No, no, I like it here on the ground perfectly fine, thanks—"

"Oh, come on, don't be wet. This is a Cleansweep. I get overtaken by butterflies on this thing, Granger."

Still she shook her head. "Can't."

"Look, you're going to fly today. Would you rather go it alone or have me there to help?"

She glared at him—how dare he?—she'd already had a rough morning what with that unstable friend of Harry Potter's, and it was only around 7 o'clock. The day couldn't really be much younger and already she felt the need for some relaxing Arithmancy problem to show the world could still be logical once in a while.

"Come on," the red-haired boy said, and this time his voice was tamer, nicer. "Just sit and I'll take us up. I won't let you fall, so stop being a priss. You're reminding me of Percy."

Hermione didn't know who Percy was, but she climbed on in front of Weasley anyway. "If I fall off and smash into bits, you'd better not leave me lying down there," she warned him shrilly. He chuckled and she could feel the vibrations at her back.

"I'll even be so generous as to carry your bloody remains back to the castle," he murmured as they took off.

Hermione's first impulse was that the broom was hard difficult to sit on. Her second impulse was so get off the ride as quickly as possible. Weasley fought her flailing limbs down and yelled against the whoosh of wind, "Oy! Don't be thick! Are you trying to jump off or something?" He held down her arms firmly, but her terror sent her leg in a quick dig against his shin. He howled in pain and squeezed her. "Listen, woman, if you don't cut that out I'll throw you off the bloody broom myself!"

She forced herself to take a breath and look up rather than down. There was the early sun, and above that a gathering of clouds. This wasn't so bad—the sky looked the same from the ground, she noticed. Not so bad.

Weasley stopped the broom above the treetops. "Go on, look around. Might as well, now." Hermione did, and had to suppress the urge to panic again. Weasley must have felt her shake, for he tightened his arms once again. And suddenly, she felt at peace. It was alright. There was this infinity above her, and a sure death below, but around her were freckled arms, more reassuring than any walls.

He was right; in some ways, everything was better up here.

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	22. Dog

Thumbs up to everyone who reviewed. Oh, yes, and pure rose, I do indeed remember your devotion to my parodies and you wacky reviews as well. I'm so glad one of my old fans is still reading my new stuff and I hope you review more often--I hope you all will review more often, because you're all lovely and I really like seeing what you have to say about this thing.

That done with, please enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Dog

"Did you see him?" Blaise Zabini cried.

"Fell clear off the damn broom like it'd been buttered up!" a fourth year Slytherin said with a whoop. His words echoed around the Quidditch team's changing room.

Harry chortled with laughter.

"Oh, Potter, don't pretend to be so amused." That was Malfoy's sardonic drawl that Harry could recognize a mile away. "As if you weren't clutching your broom and bawling for mummy."

Harry turned around and mockingly grinned at his smirking friend as he entered the room. "You get him to the infirmary alright, love?" he asked, raising his pitch to a breathy falsetto.

Malfoy scowled at the name, but answered anyway: "Yeah. He's got a lump on his head the size of an egg." He smoothed his hair, plastered to his skin from the tumultuous rain outside, out of his eyes.

Harry shrugged. "Didn't notice a difference in his looks," he said wickedly.

Malfoy snorted. "That isn't Goyle's fault, that's just your wonky glasses, Four-Eyes."

Harry laughed and put away his Beater's bat. Generally, anytime Goyle, his fellow Beater, made a blunder in the air was cause for mirth. The fact that Goyle never screamed in pain but only grunted confusedly only seemed to amplify this sort of amusement. "Good job with that Snitch," Harry told Malfoy. "I'm startled you can focus on that little runt in a storm like that."

The other boy rubbed his arm. "Oh, yeah. I'd congratulate you on your marvelous work with that bat, Potter, if my elbow wasn't throbbing so hard from the Bludger you let at me. Next time, maybe."

Harry said in mock defense, "Honestly, Malfoy, I can't win them all. A couple are always gonna slip by me."

"Ha—you mean _you'll_ conveniently skip by one headed right at your best friend. Not to mention Goyle."

Harry grinned and threw his arm around Malfoy. "Best friend? That he is, young master, that he is."

"I hate to break up your sad little love-fest, but you have company," Zabini said dryly from behind them. Harry turned around and instantly leapt back before he got speared on the giant hook protruding from his visitor's face.

"Watch that thing, Professor, you nearly had my eye out!" he cried indignantly.

Snape curled his lip. "How amusing. Potter, it seems that I have rather unfortunately left the Quaffle outside after your match. Would you be so kind as to get it for me?"

Harry smirked inwardly. Of course the big bat would ask him to go get the ball. No problem, he thought, and gave Snape a wide smile to show how pleased he was with this prospect. "Love to, sir. You know what they say about us Slytherins—neither rain nor sleet nor snow—"

"—Oh, Potter, for Merlin's sake, just GO!" Snape spat out. Harry obliged.

Outside the rain was pouring. Harry, who'd spent ten minutes drying in the changing room, was instantly soaked. "Snape, you oily git," Harry muttered. He could barely see his own feet trodding over the sodden grass of the Quidditch field, much less the Quaffle—no matter how brightly colored it was. Is this how Malfoy feels when he's Seeking? Harry wondered.

Squinting, Harry thought he saw something red in the distance. The next second, he could have sworn it moved—was this just the rain? Or perhaps his stupid, blurry glasses? But, no—there, it was definitely bobbing about. Quaffles can't do that, Harry thought slowly.

Curious now, he walked across the slippery ground towards the shape. It wasn't on the ground, it was moving about in the air. Harry thought perhaps this was the spawn of a Quaffle's tryst with a Bludger until he saw that there was a body beneath it. Harry wiped his glasses and squinted.

"Oh," he laughed. "It's you. What are you doing here, you stupid little girl?"

The female weasel turned, startled at his voice, and instantly glared. "None of your business," she hissed with a fierce tone.

Harry looked around him amusedly. "It isn't common for little girls to wander round an empty Quidditch field in the pouring rain."

"I'm not little, and it isn't empty any longer, is it?" She turned her back to him again and continued plodding through the mud. Harry watched her curiously. There was something about the way her red hair was plastered to her back that held his attention.

Then his reverie was broken as he heard her call, "Dog! Dog!"

Harry laughed. "You named your dog Dog?"

"You've been here longer than I have and you still don't realize we aren't to keep dogs?" the redhead asked, torn between scorn and fear. "Please get on your way."

"Haven't you heard what they say about flies and honey—"

"You're not a fly, you're a mean little snake, you and that white-washed friend of yours, and I don't want anything to do with you!" she cried, stomping away.

Harry, now, was rather taken aback. He wanted, for a moment, to call after her, remind her indignantly of the sunny-faced girl who'd waved to him on the train—what had happened to make her lose that shy cheer?

You know what happened, a little voice in his brain said. It happens to everyone. It happens to you too, and to Malfoy, and your mum and dad and Sirius—

Harry shook his head to clear it and watched the girl make her way through the rain. The black sky shook and flashed and rumbled as he tried to regain the light mood from winning the Quidditch match.

"Dog!" came her distant cry. Harry struggled with himself—with this new dark thought in his head—for a moment, then followed her.

"Wait up!" he called. She glanced at him incredulously.

"Didn't I tell you to scram?" she asked.

"I don't generally follow orders from anyone but me, and Malfoy on my good days," he said with a shrug. She watched him curiously, then shrugged likewise and continued on her search.

"Listen here," Harry said casually, even though he felt completely barmy. "If you're trying to find this—Dog—why don't you just fly? I mean, before you, y'know, start displaying the first symptoms of pneumonia?"

"Haven't got a broom. Spent all my birthday money on Dog last year."

"You want to use mine, then, girl?"

She faced him slowly, wiping her eyes of the rain. "Look, what are you playing at? I know you aren't being nice to me."

Harry shrugged. "I was looking for the Quaffle, and I happened to find you instead. We may as well look together," he concluded, a little wary that soon her fists would start to fly.

Ginny—er, Weasley—was staring at him with her mouth slightly open, but for a moment Harry was distracted by the curious coloring of the Quidditch field. The storm had moved on and left a slight pitter-pattering of rain, and through a hole in the patch of clouds the sun shone so that the rainy field was covered in an out-of-place golden light. And finally Harry saw it, a small red shape in a thick section of grass. He glanced back at Ginny, who was still watching him shrewdly, decided he'd had enough of her for the moment, and went to retrieve his target.

"Good luck with that Dog, Weasel," he said as he passed her on the way back to the changing room. "But if I were you, Gryffindor, I'd flit out of here. Saw a mean-looking kitty prowling around the stands that could tear your little self a new one." Harry smirked for a moment until she asked, "Did you say cat? You found him then?"

Harry looked back incredulously at her, standing all drippy in the shining field. "You named your _cat_ Dog, then?"

She nodded, and was already walking swiftly towards the stand Harry had mentioned by the time he murmured "Bloody Gryffindors" with a roll of his eyes and headed inside.

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	23. Hurting Flies

My dear reviewers, your thoughtfulness lifts my day. Really. I love everyone who's taken time to give some input, and I even love all you little lurkers who are too busy--hell, we've all been there, haven't we? Sadly, school starts tomorrow, bright and early, but I don't really think that'll affect this story much because I have about thirty more chapters written up, and the latest ones are quite long compared to the beginning.

Compared to this chapter too, sorry it's so short. Oh, and in other news, I got my first sort of flame! It's delightful--an author I like very much once wrote that a story isn't good till it gets its first flame. It was only half a flame, so I can be satisfied that the story's at least half-good so far.

Oh, and Ward, my good fellow, if you ever come around again, um, I guess I should defend my viewpoint? Harry's not much of a nice person in this. He's not busy avenging his dead parents. He's not the focus of the entire school/wizarding world. His life, as far as he knows, is not in any special danger. He can act like a regular sneaky little teenager. (No matter how I put this sort of thing, it always sounds like excuses.)

There we are. Enjoy the chapter! Wish for my school to flood or something...

Chapter Twenty-Three: Hurting Flies

Harry checked the time on the wall clock. Ten minutes till midnight. Malfoy was already nodding off in the hard, green armchair in front of him. Harry frowned: this wouldn't do. He gave a loud cough, and the other boy jerked awake.

"Hrm?" Malfoy murmured. "What…oh…nlffg."

Harry grinned. "Sleepy?"

"Ye..yeah." Malfoy yawned and stretched. "Guess I dozed off, then. I'm going to bed. You coming?" he asked Harry as he stood and headed for the dormitory. Harry shook his head.

"Going to work a little more on this Potions essay," Harry said with a smoothness in his voice that he found came easier and easier as time went by. Malfoy shrugged and turned, closing the door behind him, and Harry suppressed the guilt he felt for lying to his friend and for not feeling too badly about it afterwards. In place of this, elation filled him at finally having the Common Room, cold and unwelcome as it was, to himself.

Harry pulled the shabby black diary out of his bag. "Hello, Tom," he wrote.

"Hello, Harry. How are you?"

This was the part that astounded Harry: despite this memory—this person?—being trapped in a diary for fifty years, it never seemed to be concerned with itself, hadn't yet bombarded him with questions of the present. Instead it asked, nice as you please, how he was doing.

Harry couldn't help but be charmed.

"I'm fine. It's late though, I just managed to send my friend off to bed."

"He doesn't know about me, then?"

"I told him you didn't work. I don't think he'd trust a talking book."

The diary gave off an impression of light laughter. "I'm only bits of paper. I don't think I could hurt a fly."

Harry smirked slightly. "Not unless I clapped you shut, no."

"It seems more like you'd be the one to blame, then."

Harry paused. This line from Tom niggled at his mind, as if he were talking of something much more important than hurting flies. In this pause, he received something the diary had never given him: an order.

"Tell me more about your friends."

Harry thought, and finally wrote down, "My best friend—he's the one I was talking about before—his name's Draco."

"Strange name. He isn't from an English family, is he?" Tom asked.

Harry pondered. "Er, I don't know much about the Malfoys. They might be French."

"Malfoys? Your best friend is a Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"I heard of them when I was at school; very old wizarding family, aren't they?"

At this Harry frowned. From what Riddle had told him that first, long night, he'd been an orphan and had no knowledge of the magical world before he'd been chosen for Hogwarts (how strange that must have felt, Harry wondered). It didn't seem like he'd had much access to wizarding ancestries. But Tom was no fool, Harry decided, and could probably soak in information around him like a sponge. Not to mention that the diary had been sent by Malfoy's own father who may well have known its secret…but then, why would Tom even bother to ask?

Confused, he simply wrote, "Yes, they go pretty far back."

"Well, go on, Harry, don't deprive me. Tell me more."

And so Harry easily lost himself in the diary's charming, if obscure, allure, proceeding to tell Tom all about his friendship with Malfoy and the other boys in Slytherin. The topic branched onto Quidditch, then prefect duty, before Harry decided to call it a night.

Still, even as he lay with his cheek pressed to his pillow, guilt for keeping things from Malfoy and an inexplicable fear of what Tom had said about the fly hung about him like a heavy mist.

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	24. Where Power Lay

Oh, dear, so few reviews. Makes FFF sad. Ah well, got to roll with the punches and all that. I won't bore you with tales of my first day of school--that's what LJ's for, if anyone's interested (snort). Here we go--allow me to apologize in advance for such shortness. Next chapter's two or three times as long, promise.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Where Power Lay

"Remind me why we're doing this, please," Harry said, nervously adjusting his cloak.

Malfoy sighed beside him and threw the Floo Powder into Snape's office's fireplace. "Because, you forgetful prat, you know Father won't let me spend the hols at your place unless we go."

"It's more denial than forgetfulness," Harry groaned, staring into the emerald green flames.

"No, it's just a bloody Christmas party is what it is. Quit getting your knickers in a twist."

"A Malfoy Christmas party. Honestly, do you know how quakey I get around your family?" Harry cried, forgetting the fire for a moment.

"It's one day; you can last that long, you ninny."

"Not if you never get there, Mr. Malfoy," came Snape's cold voice—apparently, he wasn't enjoying this conversation. "In fact, this whole debate will be utterly worthless until one of you actually decides to use the fire for which you are wasting my time right now."

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright," he said dramatically. "I'll go, at risk to my own life. Farewell, Professor Snape, o epitome of kindness! Farewell, dearest Malfoy—"

"Shut up, you sod, I'll be seeing you in half a second," Malfoy said, shoving Harry into the fire.

Harry cringed and said, "Malfoy Manor," making sure to tuck in his elbows, which proved to be a challenge as he was also carrying his trunk.

A moment later, true to his word, Malfoy joined Harry, tumbling out of the fireplace onto the cold stone floor of his father's manor. The place was just as he'd remembered it, classically decorated with curtains the color of dark wines, violent tapestries depicting supernatural battles, ornate rugs covering the stone floor. In short, the entire house screamed of long-winded ancestry and Pureblood pride.

Malfoy's father greeted them as they brushed themselves off and stood up. Harry eyed him warily. Even fifteen years of growth surrounded by his sharp-witted family could never prepare him for the cold solemnity Lucius Malfoy seemed to carry round in his pockets.

"Draco, Mr. Potter, glad you could join us," he said, and even this salutations came wrapped in mockery. His eyes slid over Harry's glasses to the Muggle sneakers poking out from beneath his disheveled robes. Harry could already feel the younger Malfoy starting to fume silently beside him. He lightly nudged his friend's arm and Malfoy gathered himself.

"It's a miracle, Father, I quite agree," he said stiffly. That was always the way he'd been around his father in the years Harry had known him—for all the complaining Harry would emit at the idea of a Malfoy gathering, it was the Malfoy himself who was the most uncomfortable.

The elder man smiled grimly and broke the tension in the air by gesturing towards the sweeping staircase across the room. "Dobby will get your trunks. Go wash up and get ready for the party, will you?"

Malfoy jerked his head in a nod and started towards the stairs; Harry followed after setting down his trunk, amused slightly by the image of the Malfoys' goggly House-Elf staggering under its weight.

---------------------------

Lucius Malfoy had, understandably, been quite surprised when he found that his son was running with the Potters' boy at school. A half-blood boy whose only Pureblood relations were Muggle-tolerant. Moreover, he was the godson of that blood traitor, Black; Bellatrix had flown into a rage when she'd found out. Fortunately, she'd been in Azkaban at the time for killing the Longbottoms after You-Know-Who's downfall, and a set of thick bars had separated the deranged woman from her visiting brother-in-law.

As for Lucius, though surprise had been his first reaction, a quiet disappointment had been his next. The boy was silly—his son, not Potter. Well, most likely Potter as well, for that matter. But Draco…he obviously hadn't learned what Lucius had known in his Hogwarts days. It was elementary to know where power lay, and how to get on its side. What possessed the boy to befriend someone as unknown as himself, obviously a useless bond, Lucius did not know. Draco was hopeless.

And this is the boy I'm staking my entire life's planning on, Lucius thought sardonically.

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	25. Barbaric Game

Ah, comrades, thank you for your reviewing kindness. I bring you, in the midst of my scholarly life, another chapter. Containing much Ron and much Christmas of the angst kind.

Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five: Barbaric Game

Ron's Christmases had been spent at Hogwarts ever since first year.

The first year, the disappointment of his Sorting was still fresh and sore. He decided to take a short break from his family and give it time. He would come home for Christmas next year, when he felt better about the whole thing. It wasn't as bad as it seemed, he was sure. After all, there'd been five of them placed in Gryffindor already, not counting his parents; they had to run out of that sort of thing sooner or later. Surely Ginny would be joining him in Hufflepuff House next year—if anyone belonged there, it was the shy little girl. And then he could go home and not feel quite so shamed.

But then Ginny had been sorted into Gryffindor for no apparent reason, and Ron had become flamingly jealous. He'd fought boys twice his width, he'd never let his brothers walk all over him, he'd braved his mum's anger many times before on midnight kitchen raids. And yet he'd been placed in this house, this house for meek little people who had no use whatever. Why?

Cos you're an idiot, ickle Ronniekins, said a nasty voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like a sing-song chorus from Fred and George. They'd been fairly decent about the whole affair, but he couldn't help getting a feeling that everyone was laughing at him when he wasn't there.

And so he'd stayed at Hogwarts again in his second year of school, and every year since, skulking around the Hufflepuff common room and occasionally (when the skies were clear) indulging in a little flying. Luckily, the little black-haired Susan Bones usually stayed on as well, and they'd quickly become comrades-in-boredom.

This year, however, she'd had to attend a function at the Ministry of Magic in honor of her aunt, the distinguished Amelia Bones, who had just gotten promoted to the second seat of the Wizengamot. "Don't set the dorm on fire, Ronnie, it doesn't really deserve it," she'd told him before departing to her snow-swirled carriage.

And now the usually cheery Hufflepuff common room was silent and empty, leaving Ron in desperate need of something to do, as setting the dorm on fire had been prohibited to him and he'd already moped to his full capacity.

He wandered through the Great Hall, where the gamekeeper, Hagrid, had already set out giant pines for the feasting that night. It was late morning yet, and Ron didn't particularly feel like flying. He visited the other places he deemed worthy of a good haunt: the kitchens, kindly pointed out by Fred and George in his third year—most likely out of pity; the owlery, cold and smelly but with an inspiring view; even the Prefect bathroom, whose password he always overheard being boasted by Ernie McMillan, though he didn't feel like having a bath that moment. He returned to the common room feeling dejected and not looking forward to the evening at all.

Perhaps, he considered, it was time to visit the one place he'd never bothered to look into before. But was he that desperate? Didn't he have any pride left in him?

'Course not, Ron thought as he entered the library. That whole pride thing was done away with years ago—to an extent. At first glance, there was no one in the library. Shocker. But then, he rounded a shelf decorated with glistening holly and pixies, and saw a familiar head of brown hair.

She was sitting alone, of course, but this was the first time he saw her sitting without a book or class-work. Instead, in front of her sat a chessboard, whose shabby and ordinary appearance told him it was Muggle-made, despite the fact that the pieces were moving. She'd gotten a second-hand set and enchanted it herself. Impressive, Ron thought grudgingly.

She was the worst chess player he'd ever seen. Half her pieces were already discarded and the remaining were clustered together so closely that they could barely come, much less conquer. Intrigued at why someone so abysmal at chess would spend the hols playing it, Ron stayed and gazed at her increasingly irritated hands move the pieces around to certain defeat.

She lost that game, and the next three. Ron watched, torn between amusement and pity, as she buried her head in her hands after that fourth game and cried out, "Oh, sod it all!"

Ron burst out laughing. She snapped her head up at him and glared. "Something funny, Hufflepuff?" she asked.

For once Ron let the harsh words wash off his skin like rainwater. Grinning, he dropped into a chair and said, "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

Granger smoldered. "I'm practicing. Besides, you couldn't do any better."

Ron raised his eyebrow. "Think I can't? Wanna try me, then?"

In the next ten minutes, Hermione learned a valuable lesson in how utterly one can fail.

"How are you doing that?" she moaned. "You trounced me."

"You have to take the whole board into consideration; look at the entire picture. You're just doing it step by step like a bloody cooking recipe." Immensely cheered for this reminder that yes, there was something he could do rather well, Ron set about showing the girl how the game was played.

At the end of his lesson, Granger simply wrinkled her nose and said, "It's a terribly barbaric game anyway. I don't see why they aren't content to simply stay on their own squares and do something useful with them." Ron couldn't remember when she'd been more childish.

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	26. Adventures

Ah, comrades, I am so TRULY sorry about the hideously long wait (though probably no one noticed). My internet's been down since last weekend, and this is the first time it's worked all week so I'm taking advantage by updating. Who knows how long before this idiot thing breaks down again?

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, and since it's been so long I combined chapter twenty-six with chapter twenty-seven again (they were originally one chapter) and now you've got a nice long read for lack of updates. (The second part of this chapter was my favoritest part to write in the whole story, and still is.)

So enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Adventures

Harry helped Malfoy into his bedroom. The fair boy had one arm slung around his shoulder reluctantly.

"I can walk by myself. Get your nancy-hands off me, Potter," Malfoy slurred.

"First off, it's your hands on me, not the other way around, and you couldn't stand up to save your life right now, prat," Harry snapped. "Your father's a fool for letting you drink right under his nose." He deposited Malfoy on his bed and adjusted his own robes.

"M'father's a lotta things," Malfoy slurred into the blankets. "Mainly an ass, though." He rolled over and immediately shut his eyes against the torchlight.

"I don't see why he makes you attend these parties if all you do is mope around and get yourself drunk," Harry said dryly.

"That's the beauty of it, Potter. The moping's out once the wine is in!" Malfoy cried loudly with a giggle.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Are you going to bed now or what?"

Malfoy gave no answer, choosing instead to chatter on about the guests at the Christmas Party. "Did you get a look at Zabini's mum? Starting to sag a little but really…I hear she chops her husbands up and feeds 'em to the dogs, though, so maybe…"

"Shut up," Harry said smoothly. His friend made no sense on the rare occasions where he was drunk, and it usually fell upon Harry to keep him company till the effects of the wine wore off.

"Potter, Potter, Potter, so irritable on this joyous occasion," Malfoy cried out scathingly. "'Tis a time of great cheer, you miserable bloke!" He flung his arms grandly above him, still lying on his bed, and began to lead an imaginary chorus in a highly sardonic rendition of "God Rest Ye Merrye Hippogriffs."

Harry shut the door so as not to wake up the rest of the manor. He sorely itched to take out the diary from its place in his robes and speak with Riddle, but even in Malfoy's inebriated state he didn't wish to arouse any more suspicion.

When the singing got so loud and so awful that Harry couldn't stand it anymore, he strode to the bed and clapped his hand over Malfoy's mouth. "What's it gonna take to get you to shut that stupid gob?"

Malfoy said something that was muffled under Harry's hand. Once he'd removed it, Malfoy grinned sloppily and said, "Adventure."

Harry stared at him blankly. "What?"

"You heard me, Harry bloody Potter. Help me off this bed and we're going to have a bit of a stroll outside, got me?"

"Your father—"

"—is an ass, I know. Now help me up."

Harry shrugged in exasperation and pulled Malfoy to his feet, where he swayed and clung to Harry. "You look like an idiot," Harry said in contempt.

"I know."

Malfoy showed Harry a secret door behind a tapestry in his room ("Father tried to board it up when I was born, but the nails kept falling out") that led them out of the manor to the cold grounds outside.

"What now?" Harry asked, glad that he'd had the foresight to bring his thick cloak with him.

"I dunno. Want a tour?"

"Of your forests? Doesn't sound very thrilling to me."

Malfoy drew himself up as best he could, incensed. "Insulting my sense of adventure, are you? 'll show you, you mis'rable little four-eyes." He grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him towards the forest. "Father's raised all ki'ds of nasties down here," he slurred. "Maybe you'll start thinking it's thrilling once something's ripped ou' your entrails."

Harry was starting to grow nervous now. They were in a thick patch of bare trees, snow-covered dead leaves crunching underfoot. "Malfoy, you're going to get us killed—"

He barely had time to finish his sentence before they tumbled into a large pit concealed by bracken and Harry's sight went black.

----------------------------

When Harry came to, he seemed to be in the same forest he'd been in before. The sun was up now, illuminating the pearly gray clouds that covered the sky. Orange-brown leaves poking through gleaming snow speckled the ground. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, nor was the hole they'd fallen into.

Harry scrambled up, whipping his head around. "Malfoy!" he called. Stupid sod, what's he gotten me into now? Harry thought, disconcerted. There was a crunching of dead leaves and snow behind him. Harry turned around.

Someone was coming through a path lined by bowing trees that arched their branches over the way like revering deer. It wasn't Malfoy. He was tall, with a handsome pale face rosy-cheeked from cold and black hair littered with snowflakes. He looked only a year or two older than Harry himself, and was dressed in black robes and a red scarf that was twined about his neck. He was carrying something under one arm.

As he got closer, he smiled at Harry with eyes that were bright and dark. "Hello," he said cheerfully. "I didn't know I'd be meeting you so soon."

Harry stumbled backwards. "Who are you?" he asked, trying not to tremble. Something strange was going on. It was too bright for December; the entire forest was white and bare and gleaming. It wasn't right.

"It's me," the boy said simply. "Tom."

Harry's jaw dropped.

"Aren't you happy to see me? I know how much you love talking to me," the stranger—was he really considered a stranger?—replied to Harry's shock.

"But—but you were…you lived fifty years ago. Shouldn't you be, er, dead?" Harry asked feebly. His mind was playing tricks on him. This had to be a trick.

"Alive enough to talk to you through a diary. Alive enough to meet you."

"No. You're fooling, you're not Tom, you're some silly little upstart from school trying to play tricks. Did Malfoy's father put you up to this—"

The boy laughed crisply. "Lucius couldn't put me up to anything if he tried. Lucius is an ass. And you, you are Harry Potter, your best friend is Draco Malfoy, your parents are stout Gryffindors, and your worst fear is failure. And…you greatly enjoy writing into my diary."

Harry noticed something with a sharp sting. "So if you are Tom Riddle, then why did you lie to me before? Why did you pretend you didn't know anything about the Malfoys when you know Lucius Malfoy on a first-name basis?"

Riddle shrugged. "Harry, you know the answer to that as well as I do. Don't you?"

Harry did. "You thought I wouldn't trust you if you were something of Lucius's."

Tom grinned. "That's my boy."

Harry took another step back. "Well, you were right. I don't trust you now."

Tom shook his head, still smiling. "Harry, don't tell me you of all people would not understand that where something comes from is no indication of its merit. Look at you, the seed of generations of Gryffindors, put into Slytherin because of your drive and your ambition; because of your curiosity. It makes no difference how you were born, Harry. It makes no difference where we start. We both know that."

Harry reluctantly realized that Tom was right, and that he, Harry, was being unfair. After all, Tom had been such a good listener, understood him so well.

"Alright then. You have a point. But why are we meeting? What do you want?"

A look of earnest hurt appeared over Tom's face. "Why do you think I come because of something I want for myself? I want nothing from you, Harry. I came to give you this, and because I wanted to meet you face to face." He took the thing out from under his arm. It was wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with twine.

Harry looked at it warily, but not as suspiciously as he would have done before. "I still don't understand. How can you be here? How can you be…?"

Tom shook his head. "Haven't you realized? We're not here, Harry. This place is just a crevice of your mind. A place in your subconscious. In the true woods outside Malfoy Manor, in the physical world, you aren't even aboveground anymore."

"So this place…it's in my head, then? It isn't real?" Harry asked slowly.

Tom laughed. "Just because it's not the physical world, it can't be real? No, Harry. Your dreams are just as real as the rest of you. This is a shade of the forest outside the manor, just as I am a shade of what I used to be." He said this last with a slight wistfulness that Harry noted, alert. However, before he could inquire further, Tom held out the rough package.

"Take it," he said in a friendly tone. "It will be useful. Promise me, no matter what you find in there, promise me that you won't be angry with me, Harry."

Harry took the package. Tom's pleading was like a song to his ears, and stirred a loyalty in him that he thought he'd only feel with Malfoy. "I promise," he said, doubt retreating into the back of his thoughts.

Tom smiled and everything was worth it. "Thank you. I'll see you again, sometime soon. Open that when you've returned to your own world, all right?"

Harry nodded, and Tom turned and strode away, his footsteps noisy and springy. Harry watched him till the bright red tail of his scarf was out of sight.

He then studied the package in his hands. It wasn't very heavy, nor warm, but that told him very little. His fingers itched to open it, aroused by the curiosity Tom knowingly spoke of.

"Harry!"

For a second he thought Tom had returned, but then he realized it was Malfoy's voice. Turning his head abruptly, wondering how Malfoy had wandered into this—place—as well, Harry found with a shock that the whole world had dimmed.

Looking around carefully, Harry realized that he was underground and no longer standing, but sprawled uncomfortably in the large pit he'd fallen into—when? Last night?

Malfoy was crouched over him, his face screwed up in pain from too much wine. "You up now?" he asked hoarsely.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. How long—"

"Since last night. We've got to get back, it's nearly dawn and I don't want Father to know." Malfoy winced and rubbed his temple. "Why'd you listen to me? Why didn't you just bloody tie me to the bed or something?"

Harry rose with a creaking of the joints. "Didn't know you liked it rough, but I'll try to remember next time."

"Potter! How many times do I have to tell you—"

"—not to talk about your preferences aloud? Sorry, mate."

"Bloody lying sod!" Malfoy bellowed. He regretted it instantly and cradled his head, whimpering.

"Look, let's try to get out of this thing first. Why the hell did your father put a pit in the forest?" Harry asked incredulously. What he wanted most of all was to go somewhere alone and think about the dream he'd had, but there were more pressing matters.

"Hunting, I suppose. Maybe there's been a werewolf running round the woods or something." Malfoy paled. "If he put it here to catch something, he's going to—"

"Come looking for it. I know," Harry said rather breathlessly. "Let's go."

The sky was already lightening by the time Harry and Malfoy had discerned a way of boosting themselves out of the pit. Like mice, they scurried through the trees and back into the tunnel under the manor. They emerged from the secret door behind the tapestry just as Lucius Malfoy opened the door.

Harry saw him taking in their disheveled and dirty appearance, only then realizing that his robes were streaked with dirt and tatters of dead leaves.

"If I've told you once, I've told you twice, Draco: learn to hold in your wine," Lucius said disdainfully. Malfoy said nothing, only looked away with a scathing glare.

"Your fire is ready," Lucius informed them. "I'm sure your…ahem…doting family—" he looked pointedly at Harry "—is awaiting you. Anytime you're ready." With a smirk, the man left the two in the room.

Strangely, Harry no longer felt so nervous about him. After what Tom had said of Lucius, an opinion that exactly matched Malfoy's, the mystique around the pale man had disappeared. Tom was much more of an enigma than Lucius…and in his dream, Tom had given him a present.

Harry's hand instinctively flew to the pockets of his robes for the package as Malfoy bustled around gathering his things for their stay at the Potters'. He was severely disappointed to find the pocket empty. Of course…he'd been holding it in his hand when he'd been brought out of the dream. And it might not even have been real at all.

"Oy, Potter, don't stand there like a boulder, start packing."

Confused and frustrated, Harry turned to his own truck to do as Malfoy said, only to find the crinkly package lying on top of his messy stack of jeans. There was something written in a rushed hand that he recognized very well:

"Merry Christmas."

Behind Harry, Malfoy had started happily humming "God Rest Ye Merrye Hippogriffs".

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	27. Bit of Holiday Fun

Hello all. I'm updating because I am at my friend's house and she, unlike me, is not suffering ye Olde Terrible Internette Crisis. So I, following the paths of logic, am using this opportunity to post my last uploaded chapter. After this, though, all bets are off, so thanks for reviewing and enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bit of Holiday Fun

Lily and James greeted the two boys as they arrived at the house in a carriage bearing some utterly silly French crest that Harry had always supposed indicated the Malfoy family somehow. Harry considered himself lucky that his parents had chosen to settle down at Godric's Hollow, a village mostly filled with wizards where few questions would be asked, even when one arrived home at Christmas in a wonky looking carriage.

His parents nearly rolled their eyes as Harry and Malfoy clambered out, loaded down with their school trunks, but managed to hold it in until the carriage had rolled past the house.

"Welcome home, love, and you, Draco dear," Lily said warmly. "Your uncles are setting up fort inside, and there's cocoa and gingerbread in the kitchen."

Harry smiled at her, grateful as she ushered them in from the dull, dark blue night. If Lucius Malfoy didn't refuse to link his Floo network to any homes that didn't meet his standards, the two boys would have made it well before nightfall. But as it was, they were now both thoroughly chilled and eager to come in.

The house was warm, and indeed, his uncles really had set up a fort using the furniture and were now duking it out between bites of gingerbread (Sirius enthusiastically, Lupin somewhat more reluctant).

As he and Malfoy sat down to the steaming cocoa, the fair haired boy commented, "What's with you?"

Harry tried not to meet his eyes and asked, "How do you mean?"

"You've been weird ever since we got back to the Manor. Now I know waking up in a pit—"

"Quiet!" Harry chided, glancing at his family through the kitchen doorway.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Your parents and your uncles are shooting pillows at each other. I really think it's safe to talk. Anyways, I admit last night was weird, but not in comparison to all those other times—"

"I'm fine," Harry interrupted again, dipping a cookie in his cocoa. "I just don't like seeing you drunk," he put forth in a relieved stroke of quick thinking.

This had exactly the effect he intended. Malfoy tightened up, pulling his mug closer to him and ducking his head. "I know, I was a real wanker, I just don't like my house."

Harry felt a jab of shame, and shyly stroked his friend's arm. It was unfair to make him withdraw simply to avoid explaining Tom's bizarre visit. "It's fine, Draco. I understand. This place has its downs, too."

Malfoy recoiled at the touch slightly, but made no mention of Harry using his first name. He took another sip and laughed bitterly. "Whatever downs this place has, your mum's cooking probably isn't on that list."

Harry shook his head. "No, that one's on the 'why I come home for the summer' list."

Malfoy groaned softly and pressed the warm mug to his temple. "If it helps, I definitely feel the penance. It's coming in loud and clear in my skull."

Harry sighed and had no idea what to say next, but luckily his family had ceased their pillow war and joined the two boys in the kitchen.

"…as much a tiger in the sack as she is at playing forts, Prongs?" Sirius was asking Harry's father as the strolled in.

Lily let out a reluctant laugh and hit him on the arm while Harry nearly spit cocoa all over himself. "Shhhh! I can't abide you, Sirius Black," she said roguishly.

Sirius grinned. "No. Neither can the office, judging from the measly bonus they've given me for the holiday."

"What would you ever do without the sustenance of the House of Potter?" Lupin asked in a quiet, mocking tone.

"I'll never know. Potters have been feeding me since I was twelve."

"And I'm sure it's made them as happy as it made you," Lily said sardonically.

"Oh, it has, believe you me," James sputtered through a mouthful of gingerbread.

Harry rose and saw Malfoy follow him. Once his relatives started bantering there was usually no end to it. His mother saw him leave and called out, "Harry! You just arrived. Won't you sit with us awhile?"

Harry turned and shook his head. "Tired, mum."

"Oh, let him!" Sirius cried. "He's a fifteen year old boy, they wear out like fake wands."

Lupin gave a quiet chuckle. "Not how I remember it …" His voice trailed off as Harry and Malfoy made their way upstairs.

Harry couldn't sleep. Malfoy lay on Harry's bed—"poofter as always," Malfoy had remarked sleepily when Harry had played the gentleman and chosen to sleep on the floor. He curled up there now on the soft rug, listening to Malfoy's breathing. It wasn't the deep breath of sleep just yet, but even and tranquil enough to calm Harry's whirling mind. He still hadn't opened the package nestled in his pocket. Not here, Harry thought. Not in my parents' home.

An hour, or more, later, it seemed that Malfoy had finally dropped off to sleep, still clutching his empty mug. Harry saw it as it rolled out of Malfoy's slowly uncurling alabaster hand, saw it as it hit the ground and shattered into a hundred pieces a split second before he heard the crash it made. Pieces of white, glittering in the moonlight coming from the window, lay next to Harry's eye.

"Wassat?" he heard Malfoy groan. "Wassat sound—argh!"

The fair haired boy had stepped on a sharp piece of the mug. In his weird, midnight state of mind, Harry replayed the vision of Malfoy's hand uncurling as though he'd died, of the mug dropping down again and again.

Then he sank back to earth and sprang out of his makeshift bed, helping the sleepy other to collect the fragments.

"M'sorry," Malfoy yawned.

"It's alright," Harry said hoarsely. "We've got plenty of these."

They carried the fragments downstairs. Harry considered going to his parents to see if it could be fixed by magic, but the house seemed too dark and too silent for him to dare disturb it. They set the shards on the kitchen table and began bandaging Malfoy's bleeding foot.

"Thanks," Malfoy grunted. "Am I ever going to get any sleep in this place?"

"It's fine. The house is quiet, there shouldn't be any more disturbances as long as you don't haul any more of my mum's crockery into bed with you."

Malfoy smirked. "All right. Nice, quiet sleep it is—"

At that moment, inevitably, a thump came at the door. It was immediately followed by a hiss of a "shhh" and Harry leapt off the kitchen chair. Glancing at Malfoy, he approached the front door warily as it slowly opened in the dark of the hallway. Harry pulled his wand out of his pajama pocket.

Sirius's head poked out from behind the door and took a quick look into the gloom of the hall. "It's safe," he said to whoever was behind him. Harry watched in somewhat resigned fascination as his father and Uncle Lupin emerged from outside.

The three men shut the door quietly, not noticing the two boys in the kitchen until they'd already come in and were about to sit at the table. Sirius was chuckling softly, and Harry took this as an augury of some dangerous sort of prank.

"And where have you three been?" Harry asked coolly.

His father whirled around. "Harry!" he whispered loudly. "What in Merlin's name are you doing down here? In the dark?"

Harry shrugged. "Malfoy cut his foot," he said, pointing to the boy still seated at the table. "We didn't want to wake anyone up with light. And you?"

James' eyes flickered apprehensively, but Sirius egged him to tell Harry, and so, sheepishly, he did. "We, er, we were out for a…bit of holiday fun."

Sirius obviously couldn't take it anymore and burst out, "We stuck your mum's knickers on the statue of Godric Gryffindor in the village square," he said with a wicked grin.

Harry let loose a laugh as Malfoy chuckled behind him. A dangerous prank, indeed. His mother would let hell loose come morning. Meanwhile, Lupin frowned disapprovingly at Sirius.

"Oh, go on and frown like you weren't there with us the whole time!" Sirius said gleefully. "Great old hypocrite, Moony."

Lupin, Sirius, and Harry then sat down at the table while James bustled about making tea as quietly as possible. Harry grinned sympathetically at Lupin. "They get you in trouble often then, Uncle Moony?"

Lupin sighed. "Oh, more often than you think. Potters have been feeding a Black since he was twelve, and certain friends have been getting a Lupin in trouble for just as long."

Sirius snorted. "Not at wandpoint or anything, Remus. Really, you act as if we've been holding you hostage since first year."

Lupin laughed. "Do you remember that one time in fourth year? McGonagall and the ferrets?"

Sirius recoiled in shock and grinned. "Why, Moony, old chum!" he replied, running a hand through his hair delightedly. "I'd plumb forgot till now! You were raving mad at us for weeks after that episode…"

Harry perked up a little, ready for a good story. "What happened?"

"Well," Sirius leaned in conspiratorially, "the four of us—me, your dad, Lupin, and Peter—back before he became a treacherous sod, of course—"

"Sirius," Lupin warned in a hard tone.

"Sorry, Moony. Ahem, yes…the four of us, we merry old lads, were planning to celebrate Gryffindor winning at Quidditch by a little harmless fun in the Entrance Hall—"

"What he means," interrupted Lupin, "is that him and your dad got their hands on some fireworks through Mundungus Fletcher, and were planning to 'harmlessly' set them off in the hall."

"Ahhh, Mundungus Fletcher. The worst influence I ever met," Sirius sighed in mock happiness, wiping an imaginary tear off his face. "Back to the story…we'd gotten a good deal of the sparklers in the air, and you know how huge that hall is—we still had plenty of room. That's when Pete rushes in, the great filthy rat—sorry, Remus—and pips out that Snivellus was about to come in."

Harry grinned slightly. He loved stories that his godfather told him about Snape, the pathetic old slimeball.

Sirius continued. "So we tell old Moony, this here's your chance to get back at Snivellus for all the times he's wronged you—"

"But what Padfoot really meant, of course, was that this was my chance to get back at Snape for the time he'd told on him and James for talking in class the day before—" Lupin explained before interruption.

"Yes, yes, be quiet, Moony, and let me tell the story," Sirius grumbled. "So we finally convince Moony, just this once, to walk on the wild side, and give him…The Beaut."

"The Beaut?" Harry asked.

"Oh, she was a thing of glory, my young grasshopper. One of the most impressive firecracker launchers I've ever seen. Like something out of those old Muggle movies, but flashier. Mundungus only asked for twenty Galleons for—sorry, sorry, Moony, I'll get on. Anyway, we give Moony the Beaut, and he aims for the door waiting for Snivellus to slime his way in."

"The whole time, he's shaking like a Muggleborn in Slytherin House," James snickered from his place at the teakettle.

"Quite," Sirius agreed. "So anyways, Moony's standing there trembling, eyes closed, waiting for his cue, and the door opens and Prongs calls out 'now'!"

"And who strolls in the door but McGonagall, carrying a huge covered cage and telling Snape behind her how kind it was to hold the door open for her," Lupin commented dryly.

By now Sirius was cackling, face streaked with tears of mirth. "And—and—and then Moony fires off a volley of fireworks that shoot straight at McGonagall, and the cage bursts open and this huge stream of blimey ferrets comes pouring out—"

"—And all the while, fireworks are booming and Snivellus is diving behind a table and McGonagall's hair catches fire—" James adds feverishly.

"—And there I am, standing with the launcher and gaping like a fish," Lupin finished off, laughing in spite of himself. "I didn't forgive your dad and Sirius and Peter for weeks."

By then, Harry and Malfoy were both reduced to tears, heads lolling on the tabletop. "Wh-why'd McGonagall have a box of ferrets of all things!" Malfoy asked after he'd somewhat composed himself.

"She'd carried them in from the grounds for the Transfiguration class to turn into towels, if I remember right," Lupin said thoughtfully.

"D'you know, I think some of those ferrets are still scurrying around that hall," Sirius put in.

Harry smirked at Malfoy. "Maybe your dad found one and decided he rather needed a son," he jabbed.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Potter, I assure you that I am very much a real boy, not a transfigured ferret."

"Oh, I reckon that's the story your dad told you, Ferret Boy."

James laughed and took the kettle off the stove, pouring everyone a cup. He and Sirius gabbed on about the scrapes they'd been in at school while Malfoy listened attentively. Harry's mind strayed until he noticed Lupin watching him with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Something wrong, Uncle Moony?" Harry asked.

Lupin smiled. "No. I just wanted you to know, Harry, that we may have had our fun and games at Hogwarts, but you mustn't take it for granted that you'll get out of everything un-scraped. I know what it's like, being at school, being fifteen. You'd do anything for your friends," he said with a glance at Malfoy. "As I did. But your dad and Sirius, they were only rambunctious. Not dangerous—for the most part," he added, his eyes flickering to Sirius this time.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that I had a total blind spot when I was your age. I couldn't count the amount of times I should have told them 'no' on one hand if I had a hundred fingers. Loyalty is admirable, Harry, but you must never let that sort of thing cloud your judgment."

Harry looked closely at Lupin. "Is this because he's a Malfoy?" he asked in a hard tone.

Lupin smiled again and shook his head. "No, Harry. I don't mean with Malfoy. I mean at all times. D'you understand? Your parents worry about you, you know. They say you're distant, that you talk to your friend more than to them nowadays even when you're home—"

"Yes," Harry whispered fiercely. "That's because—"

Lupin laughed. "Because you're fifteen. I know, remember? Don't worry about it. Just make sure you stay out of trouble. Sirius is your godfather, and he should be the one telling you this…" Lupin paused, looking at Sirius as he regaled James and Malfoy with the tale of his first night running away from home. "But somehow, I doubt he'd be able to." The tawny-haired man smiled ruefully.

Harry simply looked down into his cup, slightly shaken by his uncle's words, and said, "Yes. I'll remember that, don't worry."

After they'd all drunk their fill of tea, James put everything away and whispered, "Now run up to bed before your mum comes down and catches us—"

"Don't bother," Lily's tired voice came from the doorway as she strode in and plunked down in a chair. "Tea, please, James. Couldn't sleep," she said as a way of explanation.

As Harry and Malfoy trooped up the stairs to desperately attempt some sleep, Malfoy commented, "She took it pretty well."

Harry snorted. "Just wait till she sees the village square."

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	28. Staying Informed

Well, my internet's more or less back to normal, and I've been sitting here, on a pile of beans, twiddling my thumbs and giving the loyal fans a chance to review.

Didn't really work out. Ah well, despair not, fair heart of mine! For the fic must go on--so here you all are (I think this was the last flashback):

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Staying Informed

_Sirius Black had never really appreciated the joys of Christmas time. Even during those rare times when his parents, the Moste Noble and Anciente Blacks, let him remain at school over the hols, his stack of presents were usually depressingly scanty. Of course, his cousins did send him the occasional sweater emblazoned with "Blood Traitor" or perhaps a lovely jar of undiluted bubotuber pus to take with his evening tea._

_Funny, Sirius thought, it's almost as if they feel _disappointed_ in me. Imagine that._

_His lack of presents aside, there really was no other point in the holiday to him. It was all about familial ties and blood and all that stupid rubbish that shouldn't tell you bloody _anything_ about a person and yet was always used to define one. Sirius thought it was a very stupid concept, as all of his true family was at Hogwarts, far away from his London "home."_

_There was no friendliness towards Sirius in Grimmauld Place, not after Andromeda Tonks had been banished from the house for marrying a Muggle. This Christmas, his fourth year, he'd been welcomed inside by his father's gaunt scowl. The man would be handsome if he weren't filled with rot and sewage on the insides, Sirius thought. His mother didn't even come to greet him, being of the opinion that such a symbol of betrayal would fill her veins with madness. Sirius thought this was stupid. There was no more room for madness in that banshee._

_His brother, Regulus, who'd just started at Hogwarts that year, didn't speak to him as they walked upstairs to their bedrooms. Sirius walked into his room only to find his cousins, Bellatrix and Narcissa, sitting on his bed. They had their heads bent together and voices low and rushed. When they realized he'd come in, they both started and whipped around._

"_So you're here," Bella said with a sneer, always one for a quick recovery. "Didn't think Auntie'd let you through the door."_

"_No, I expect she was too busy beheading the house-elves with Aunt Elladora," Sirius said harshly._

"_Say another word about my mum and I'll help wipe your stain off the family tree," Bella murmured in a low, rich tone. She could have been commenting on an amusing Quidditch match._

_Narcissa, who was more of a behind-one's-back person when it came to insults, simply said, "Your mother gave us this room for the hols. You're to share with Uncle Alphard." Her nose wrinkled at the mention of his eccentric uncle. Sirius, however, smirked. Uncle Alphard was really the only one besides Andromeda whom Sirius could stand._

_He turned without another word to his cousins and found Uncle Alphard's room. "Why, Sirius, hello!" the man cried jubilantly, crouched over his desk. As Sirius came closer, he saw that his uncle was peering at a sort of funny cross between a frog and a monkey that grinned up at them with a wide mouth. Its most distinct feature, however, was the large pustule in the middle of its forehead, glowing a dull red._

"_A Clabbert," Uncle Alphard said excitedly. "I bought it off a fellow from the States—somewhere South—Missimopi or some such place, you know those silly Americans with their funny names…I had a friend once who lived in that Phillydilly town, she had the most fascinating species of Doxies, they're native there, you know—"_

"_About the Clabbert, Uncle Alphard?" Sirius asked somewhat in exasperation. Alphard was an odd fellow by anyone's standards, obsessed with magical zoology and cursed, or it seemed that way, with the tendency to prattle on tangent after tangent._

"_Yes, yes, the Clabbert, precisely! Do you see that red spot on its forehead?"_

_Sirius could not imagine how he could not._

"_It's that spot," Alphard continued, "that is its most interesting feature. There are the horns, and the webbed paws, and the teeth as well, of course, they are quite attractive but very sharp, you mustn't touch—man who sold it to me had loads of bite marks, seemed quite glad to get rid of the marvel, silly bloke—"_

"_So why does it glow like that?" Sirius asked quickly._

"_It glows to show danger or plotting afoot!" Alphard cried dramatically. "Very useful in most places, but I'm afraid it is completely befuddled in this place—the house is absolutely bursting with evil and foul play—just this morning when I arrived one of your aunts, ahem, _accidently _stabbed at me with the firepoker. Missed, of course, I do have impeccable reaction time, almost as quick as the imp, I wager—"_

_Sirius let his uncle's rambling create a nice white noise for him as he began unpacking his trunk and fitting his clothing into the damp, dark bureau._

_After several minutes, Uncle Alphard leapt up and banged his hand on his forehead. "Great Merlin, I nearly forgot I left my good dress robes in the dining hall! Your mum will have my skin, dear boy!"_

_He glanced at the Clabbert. "Watch him for me, will you, Sirius? He's quite safe, did a nice Confundus charm on him this morning—should keep him confused enough to be placid—in fact, I haven't performed a Confundus charm that splendidly since I found that Erumpent on safari—err, right, the robes, best be off!"_

_With that, Alphard dashed out, leaving a rather amused Sirius to unpack while watching the Clabbert out of a corner of his eye. Moments later, he heard footsteps and voices. The Clabbert's pustule intensified in its luster and glowed a bright red._

"…_glad you could come, Lucius, I was worried your mum would be rather reluctant to have you away at Christmas."_

"_Nonsense, Narcissa. My parents have the utmost respect for your family," came a drawling voice from outside the door._

_Sirius bristled, but kept quiet. Lucius Malfoy, that loathsome git, here in his home! But then, he rationalized a moment later, this isn't my home at all. So he sat by the door, eager to do what he was very good at: eavesdropping. All the while, the Clabbert pulsed red._

"_How have you been then, Lucius?" came Narcissa's voice again, tinted with flirtation. However, much to Sirius' disappointment, the pair of them appeared to move away from the door, and the next second Uncle Alphard strode in, chuckling about "young love." Sirius fought the urge to retch._

"_So sorry I took so long, Sirius, but it seems your mum had sold the robes to a man on the street and I had to chase him all the way past the bakery to get it back. Mothers can be so absentminded," Alphard said good-naturedly._

_Sirius, however, was determined to know more about Lucius and why he was here, and just why that pustule had grown even redder at his approach. And when it came to finding things out, Sirius was like a dog in his stubbornness and aversion to letting go._

_That night at dinner, he found himself seated next to Narcissa, much to his luck. Lucius was seated, as a guest, on the right hand of his mother. "So, Cissy," he casually began. "You're seeing this Malfoy bloke."_

_She looked at him sharply. "Yes, though I don't see how it's any business of yours."_

"_Well, I do enjoy staying informed." _

_Narcissa blinked at him, confused now. She might have been stupid enough to believe him. "Oh…what were you going to ask?"_

"_Dunno. It's just we don't know much about him," Sirius said in a friendly tone. If he'd been talking to Bella, she'd have sniffed him out as soon as he'd sung his first civil note. But Cissy was too naïve to understand his game._

"_I do!" she cried loudly, getting several strange looks. "I do," she said again more softly. "He's very accomplished, you know. He says he's met a man who's changed his whole outlook on life."_

_Sirius chortled. "What's the poofter doing with you, then?"_

_She glared. "Not like that, you prat. The man, he's a great leader, Lucius says. Got wonderful plans. Says he's going to change the way Muggles trod on us all over the place."_

"_Didn't our ancestors tie Muggles to trees and let them be devoured by Acromantula?" Sirius asked dryly._

_Narcissa blinked. "What's your point?"_

_Sirius sighed. "Never mind, Cissy. So does this almighty leader have a name?"_

_She nodded. "I can't remember it. It's long, and French, and unnecessary. But Lucius says he's made his way through the ranks," she added proudly, "and soon he'll be his right-hand man, and all the powers and secrets and knowledge he has will go to Lucius." She then lost all intelligent thought and sat staring at her guest dreamily._

_Sirius too glanced at Lucius, sitting further up the table. A haughty smile graced his pale, pointed face, and his arrogance radiated in the way he lifted his goblet, the lazy manner in which he laughed at a joke. _

"_Powers and secrets? Right-hand man?" Sirius murmured. "Is that so?" _

_But Cissy was long gone. Sirius watched Lucius lazily compliment the Muggle-hunting bill Mrs. Black's cousin had proposed to the Ministry._

_What Sirius didn't know then was that Lucius Malfoy would indeed go on to inherit his Lord's last chance at ever returning to power._

_For now, it was enough for Sirius to conclude that the man was a complete ass._


	29. Hungry and Extremely Vexed

I haven't posted in a while, mon amis. There appears to be an inverse relationship between the number of reviews I get and the length of the chapters (or perhaps the amount of the chapters). Which saddens me (thanks to the scant four of you who reviewed). It seems someone has gotten wind of the horrible sham I am (hahahaha...get it) in writing--either that or fanfiction hasn't been speedily delivering my author alerts to you ladies and gentlemen as it so dutifully promises.

Either way, the show must go on, and I shall not let a little thing like loss of hope and betrayal of soul get me down! Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Hungry and Extremely Vexed

The winter hols had ended, and Harry found himself Flooed back to Hogwarts with Malfoy right behind him. The atmosphere of Christmas hadn't left the school yet, but Harry already felt heavy and grim. Spending time with his family always had an odd effect on him: it was not quite as drastic as Malfoy's, but it left Harry feeling perplexed that his parents were so content, so happy with what they had. The fifteen-year-old couldn't imagine feeling so…settled.

While Malfoy draped himself on his bed to delight in some of the sweets he'd been sent over Christmas and miraculously not finished yet, Harry muttered an excuse of going out for a walk and left the dungeons.

The truth was, the time spent at home wasn't the only thing affecting him. The package in his pocket weighed him down quite effectively for something so small and light. He still hadn't the courage to open it. Logically, it shouldn't even exist—something that had been given to him in a dream taking physical form?—and he knew he should show it to someone, Malfoy, or Hermione Granger, before fiddling with it.

But, Harry paused in a dark corridor, no matter how many cats curiosity killed, the flaw was undeniably a part of him. He remembered his trip to the wand store before starting Hogwarts, when Mr. Ollivander had muttered the word "curious" under his breath. Now Harry wondered whether the man was referring to the wand or to the boy that bought it.

Nothing for it, Harry thought with resolve. He drew the small package out of his pocket, staring at it for a moment and imagining some vial of secret-looking stuff or a key, before he ripped the paper off with one flourish.

It was a small metal snake that fit into the palm of his hand. Nestled among the brown wrapping paper, it seemed to gaze up at him with a cheap-looking tin stare.

What an odd present, Harry thought perplexedly, holding the snake up to the torchlight that lit the dim hallway. In the flickering of the fire it almost seemed to move.

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Ron had barely noticed the people returning from break, the students who'd come streaming back from wherever they had gloriously spent their ideal Christmas. He'd been much too occupied with teaching Granger chess, and though she had improved slightly she still deemed the game "barbaric."

The day before he'd seen his lot arrive, wearing new knobbly sweaters that dug sharply into Ron's mind, loathe as he was to admit it. Tomorrow Susan Bones would return as well, and classes would start up the day after. Ron tried to block the thought of the upcoming term by showing Granger the kitchens.

She'd been fascinated by his knowledge of the way around the school. It was true that Fred and George had only had that magical map for a year or so before it was confiscated and never assumedly seen again. However, the twins were a clever duo and made sure to note every secret passageway in, out, and around Hogwarts before this happened.

He still remembered the day they'd shown him their own makeshift map of Hogwarts. "We're very gracious for showing this to you, you know," Fred had said. "We had to skive off an entire Potions lesson to draw this up and we regret it terribly."

"Snape nearly died of sorrow," George had agreed.

And so Ron had inherited a somewhat diluted knowledge of the secrets of Hogwarts. Granger, upon learning this, was amazed.

"This is rather interesting," she said observantly. "Think of all the time you could save going to and from classes."

Ron rolled his eyes and clapped her on the shoulder. "Granger, don't be such a Prefect. The passageways are for skiving off of school, not being more efficient at it!" They'd arrived at the painting of the giant pear, which Ron proceeded to tickle as the girl watched. The pear chuckled and became a door handle with which Ron opened the painting as Granger gaped.

He laughed and said, "C'mon."

Granger hesitantly followed him. He led her inside the painting to a sea of pots and pans, a hustle and bustle of house-elves hurrying to make that evening's dinner. Elves scurried up to the two of them, calling Ron 'master' and offering him pastries.

He turned to Granger and asked, "Well?"

However, her look of astonishment had turned into an angry glare. "House-elves? House-elves make our food?"

Ron shrugged, bewildered. "Well, yeah. D'you expect it to come from nowhere?"

Granger glanced about with narrowed eyes. "This was never in _Hogwarts, A History_," she muttered quietly.

Ron rolled his eyes. "How dreadful. Are you going to eat something or not?"

Granger stamped her foot. "I will not. This—this is slavery—bigotry—I can't believe Dumbledore…"

In the end, an outraged Granger followed Ron back to the corridors of the school.

"So much for a treat," Ron said mostly to himself.

"What was that?" Granger asked.

"I said, so much—"

"No, that—do you hear it?" she asked in confusion.

He could, now that he strained his ears. It was a very faraway cry, echoing and bouncing off the stones of the castle till it was impossible to hear what was being shouted.

"Can you tell where it's coming from?" Ron asked breathlessly.

Granger cocked her head. "I can't tell…it's echoing too much…but I think it's getting louder."

Ron was growing worried. He grabbed Granger's arm and pulled her further along the passageway. "C'mon!" he cried, angered when she pulled back to gawk at something behind her shoulder. "Oi! Move, c'mon, let's get back to the Great Hall." He tugged at her again.

"Weasley," she said shakily, "do you remember when you told me that you'd join the Quidditch team once serpents invaded the school?"

Ron froze and felt as if ice water was trickling down his spine. Something heavy was coming around the corner. He turned slowly. Oh bugger, he thought.

Hundreds of snakes of all colors and sizes were pouring down the hallway. They slithered competitively, fighting each other, and yet at the same time moved as one mass, terrible and unyielding.

Ron whirled around and yanked the girl after him, not even stopping to tell her to run. They rounded the corner, pounded up the stairs and searched hurriedly for a place to go. After it seemed like they'd gone in circles about five times, they finally found a door and hurried in. Ron slammed the door after them and slumped against it. "What," he said hoarsely, "is bloody going on?"

"Weasley…" the girl started to say.

He turned to look at her. "What is it?"

She jerked her head around. "Look…"

Axes lined the walls. The torchlight glinted off daggers and maces. The entire room seemed to be some sort of armory. Ron turned to Granger, who returned his wide-eyed gaze. "So…you going to sign up for Keeper now?" she asked weakly after a few moments of silence.

Ron looked away, sliding to the floor and burying his head in his hands. "What is BLOODY going on!" he cried.

------------------------

Harry rushed through the halls.

It was metal, tin and cheap.

_It was a small piece of metal._

There was no way in hell, no answer in all the world to justify what had just happened.

He'd been holding the little metal snake, slightly mesmerized by the way it looked in the torchlight. And then, all of a sudden, the writhing flames dancing in the metal had begun twisting, turning in his hand until what he held slithered and coiled around his fingers.

It had bit him so slightly he could barely feel it at first right on the base of his thumb. And then a blinding, searing pain had flashed across his nerves, leaving him doubled over on the ground as the snake had slithered out of his palm and away from him.

Where it had touched the ground, Harry had seen shadows gathering to join it, moving around it like a cloud. And then they had solidified, taken long, sinuous shapes until the small snake was lost from sight amidst a horde of hissing followers. Some enormous, all different colors, like a display at the zoo.

Harry had hurriedly shoved himself up and followed the serpents.

Tom, Tom, what have you done? Harry thought desperately. No, what have _I _done? That squirmy temptress, curiosity. I need a plan, where's Malfoy, I need a plan, is Malfoy OK? he thought in a confusing cycle, but all his feet knew were the words follow, run, chase, hunt.

He rounded a corner and bounded up the stairs to the seventh floor. He could hear the writhing mass faintly as it moved throughout the castle, hissing and spitting. Following the noise, Harry had to leap back when he finally found himself at the brink of the snake horde.

They were hungry and extremely vexed, he could somehow tell, but what terrified him the most was what he saw in the middle of their lot.

Two students. There were two students, surrounded and covered with snakes.

One was using a wand to ward the snakes off as best as they could, while the other seemed to be bludgeoning them with a large axe. If the situation wasn't as dire, Harry would have been wondering where someone had gotten an axe in the school. As it was, he could only watch despairingly as the one with the wand fell and was enveloped by the serpents. The axe wielder, oblivious, fought on.

Harry panicked. He waded into the sea of snakes, who seemed to not mind him, and yelled stupidly, "Stop! Stop it!" Oh, that'll do real well, he thought scathingly at himself. Nice diversion, Potter.

The next moment, every snake had slithered off the two students and swiveled their heads at him. And, he could have sworn, each snake then asked him in perfect English, "Why?"

Harry blinked and looked around him. Since when do snakes talk? For that matter, since when do snakes invade his school in droves?

"Er…because you're hurting people, and you're not real, and I want you gone!" Harry snapped dumbly. But what came from his mouth was, in fact, not English at all, but a strange guttural hissing.

He had no time to be astounded, for it seemed that the mass was not convinced by his reasoning. Hurriedly, he ran through the hissing crowd to the other two students. "Where'd you get that axe?" he asked the redheaded boy—the one who'd been fighting Malfoy, he realized dimly—hurriedly.

"Over there—some weird room I've never seen, we were looking for a hiding place and we found one—tons of weapons—"

"Room of Requirement; takes too long to get in there." Harry swore under his breathe; the snakes were advancing again. "Have you got any more weapons?"

The wand-wielding student, who'd turned out to be Granger, much to Harry's chagrin at being recognized, pointed to a wall where a small pike rested. "We brought that for me, but I prefer to use magical methods of retaliation," she said quickly.

The snakes were upon them. Harry rushed to the pike and began striking awkwardly around him. Hissing jeeringly, writhing and twisting and sliding continuously under and over and around each other, the serpents quickly overtook them. Harry battled back to back with Granger and Weasley; the corner of his consciousness silently applauded Granger's magical abilities. She shot fire at the horde and froze them in midair as if her very molecules were composed of magic.

Harry stabbed all around him, dark blood staining his hands and forearms. Meanwhile, Weasley slashed and sliced effortlessly, his face angry and set. The snakes were kept at bay for some time; then one particularly large serpent the size of a small dragon seized Harry around the middle and twisted, flinging him into the wall.

"Oy!" he heard Weasley shout to him. Harry lay, the pike dropped and lost among the enemy. He rose woozily—thankfully the snakes were still averse to attacking him and had left him alone while he was fallen. They began slithering around the two humans in their midst—and that was when Harry caught sight of a small, silver snake dwarfed among the rest.

"Axe!" he bellowed out to the redheaded boy. Weasley looked at him doubtfully, but threw the weapon to him nevertheless.

Holding it in one hand and digging through the snakes with the other, Harry finally trapped the little silver snake and threw it against the wall away from the others. He heaved the axe into the air and brought it crashing down on his wriggly quarry.

The snake split into two and when Harry picked it up, it was once again immobile and metal. He turned to the horde behind him, and watched dazedly as it slowly melted into shadows that lost their shape and dissipated on the stone floor like inverted mists.

Harry let the axe drop to the ground and sank down, chest heaving from overexertion and his racing heartbeat. Weasley and Granger sat as well, looking pale and strained. The three of them look at each other awkwardly.

Weasley cleared his throat. "Erm, you two alright, then?"

Harry peered at him a while, then nodded. There was no room for malice or disdain now; they'd just survived a sea of serpents together. Granger nodded her head as well, slowly. She glanced at Harry. "Do you—did you see—what just happened here?"

Harry swallowed. "I don't know," he said in a hollow tone. "Never seen anything like that…I don't know where they came from," he finished somewhat truthfully.

Weasley grinned shakily. "It can't have been a student. Unless someone got a barrel of snakes for Christmas…maybe Snape's family have been to visit. D'you think he'll be angry with us?"

Harry shook his head in exhaustion. "Not snakes. He's got more of a stork about him, seems."

Weasley caught his eye and actually laughed. "I thought all you Slytherins kissed up to him."

"Try kissing that face without putting your eye out, and maybe we'll let you in the club," Harry said with the shadow of a grin. Granger ran her hands through her hair in frustration.

"I can't believe you two! Making jokes—we nearly died—and you, you spoke to them, didn't you?" she questioned him shrewdly.

"Yeah. I guess I did," Harry replied a little sharply.

"So, what, you're a Parselmouth?" Weasley asked curiously.

"A—what?"

"Parselmouth, someone who—" But Weasley's explanation was interrupted by a new voice.

"Who's there, now? Eh? What woz all that yellin's about?" It was Filch.

"Damn. Come on," Weasley said to the pair of them. They ran, Weasley leading, down a few passageways that Harry had been sure were only known to him and Malfoy. Coming out at the opposite wing of the seventh floor, the trio split and Harry went his own way, feeling a little bad for not saying goodbye—or apologizing.

Harry shot away from the corridor and down all six flights of stairs till reaching the dungeon. Hurriedly he entered the Slytherin Common Room, only to find Malfoy sprawled in one of the cucumber-colored armchairs, eating a Fizzing Whizbee.

"Where've you been?" Malfoy asked gleefully. "You missed the most funny uproar. The school got invaded by snakes."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, er, must have happened while I was in the, erm, loo. I had to go and, you know—"

"Oh, don't go on, I don't need a full-on description!" Malfoy cried quickly. "Anyways, Dumbledore's rounded up everyone into the Great Hall."

Harry asked confusedly, "Then why are you here?"

Malfoy shrugged and grinned. "Got hungry," he drawled.

Harry gave a short, forced laugh and said, "I'll see you in a bit," heading to the dormitory where a diary was stashed inside his pillowcase. He needed a word with someone.

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	30. Malcontents

Friends, ficcers, reviewmen, lend me your ears...

(Generally this sort of statement, plagiarized and cliche though it may be, is followed by some sort of important announcement. But not today. All I have to say is the usual: a hearty thanks to all who reviewed, and enjoy...)

Chapter Thirty: Malcontents

Harry paced the dormitory anxiously. He had to do something, he knew, before the other fifth-years returned from the Great Hall (or, in Malfoy's case, from just outside the door). But what was he going to do? Rage at Tom in a furious scribble? No, he needed some way to confront Tom face to face: where he could hit him, strike that shy, charming smile off his face.

But he didn't know how to find Tom in his mind. The last time, it'd been Tom who'd come to Harry, and for all Harry knew he wouldn't be able to go back to that imaginary wood without being called.

He was interrupted from his indecision by the entrance of Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Crabbe-and-Goyle. "What a day," Zabini said mockingly. "Thought Dumbledore'd never let us out of there. Lucky of you, Malfoy, giving everyone the slip like that."

"I am a man of extraordinary talents," Malfoy conceded.

Harry snorted. "Extraordinary invisibility cloak that belongs to your best mate, you mean," he said with his hand outstretched.

Malfoy laughed and took the scrunched up cloak out of his pocket, depositing it in Harry's hand. "That too, Potter."

Harry sat down on the floor, leaning against the foot of his bed as the others did likewise (except for Blaise, who perched primly on his blankets). "So what did Dumbledore do after he rounded you lot up?" Harry asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, he explained the whole 'serpent invasion' bit and asked everyone to be calm. Rest of the staff looked rather grim to me, though," Blaise answered, looking disdainful.

"Well, of course he looked worried, Zabini," Malfoy said scathingly. "No need to sound like you were feeling very jumped up at the thought of a giant herd of snakes. Who'd be expecting that?" Zabini glared and looked away.

"What I'm interested in is how they got here. I mean, look, it's the middle of winter—aren't snakes cold-blooded? Aren't they all asleep or something?" Malfoy leaned forward, an excited gleam in his eyes. "Someone magicked them here, I know it. Wish we could find out who—wish we could know what he was up to."

"You're assuming it's a he?" Zabini asked, raising an eyebrow.

Malfoy shrugged. "You're right, it might be that banshee Parkinson. She might be trying to kill off competition for me," he said foppishly.

"Don't flatter yourself, ferret boy," Harry sneered. Pansy Parkinson indeed! As if anyone but Tom—but Harry—would dare to fill the school with snakes.

"Whoever did it, I want to know why, anyway," Malfoy continued his tirade with zeal. "It doesn't happen every day, does it?"

As the boys went on exchanging ideas, Harry's mind was turned away from them and back to Tom. Where before Tom had seemed a shade of the real world, he was now somehow more real, more vivid and colorful than anything around Harry. A fifty-year-old memory, long dead but somehow so much more alive than the rest of them, and at the same time—a flitting shade, the crinkled sound the yellowed paper made as Harry opened the diary, a boyish Hogwarts uniform twined in a scarf bright red like a startling bird.

Harry felt his anger ebbing away and a fondness taking its place; hastily he tried to bring back the rage he felt at Tom Riddle for unleashing such a horror upon the school, for giving Harry such a fearsome gift. Subconsciously, Harry fingered the spot at the base of his thumb where the little tinny snake had bitten him; it had hardened into a small scar like a vampire bite. Luckily, it hadn't swollen or become discolored—what exactly did that thing do to me? Harry wondered.

He'd been able to talk to the other snakes, he remembered, still in awe. But that had probably been a temporary part of Tom's magic. And come to think of it, they were not even snakes at all: merely shadows woven and twisted and given physical form. Such a thing seemed to go against every conservation law that existed in the physical world. Why, the transfiguration of nothing into something even broke several magic laws.

It seemed to Harry to be the deepest form of magic on earth, a magic that went against science and physics and everything else that magic had some sort of root in. And Tom had done it from within a book.

Something in Harry's mind told him, in a very familiar amused tone, that this was impossible. Tom didn't unleash it, Harry thought. I did.

He was interrupted from this fearful revelation by a voice. "You there, mate?" Malfoy was asking. Harry glanced at him.

"Yeah, I'm here." Harry glanced around the dormitory. "Where are the others?"

"They left ten minutes ago. What's the matter with you?" Malfoy asked shrewdly.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing," he assured.

Malfoy swore. "Potter, don't give me that rubbish; you've been all wonky since you got back. What happened? Snakes scare you?"

Harry snorted. "Yes. Oh, yes, scared my bloody pants off. You don't know the half of it," he said with more contempt than even he'd expected.

Malfoy glanced at him, looking slightly wounded. Hastily he switched his gaze to an angry glare and said snippily, "I might know, if you chose to tell me anything these days," before he snatched the map and the cloak out of Harry's trunk and walked out the dorm.

"Draco, wait—" Harry called.

"Don't bother, _Potter_. I've got things to do." The door shut smoothly.

Harry sighed and checked his watch. Already nine o'clock. Might as well nod off, he decided, clambering into bed in the empty room. The last thing he remembered was the feel of the pillowcase wrinkled against his cheek.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The woods were much the same as the last time he'd been here. Once again the forest was unnaturally bright and gleaming, and Harry froze as he heard footsteps.

Tom was walking towards him again through the avenue of trees that bowed curved white branches to him. Once he got close enough, Harry smashed his fist across the other boy's face.

Tom staggered a little and then caught himself. Straightening, he wiped a trickle of bright red blood of the corner of his mouth and smiled at Harry. "Is that any way to greet a friend?"

Harry bristled at the sound of his voice and faced him angrily. "No friend would give you a thousand snakes for Christmas," he spat.

Tom grew somber. The tails of his scarf fluttered around like robins in the slight wind. "You promised me you wouldn't be angry, Harry."

"Well, I reconsidered." Harry fumed, wanting to hit Tom again, wanting to watch those gleaming white teeth join the snow on the ground.

"You did not like it," Tom said slowly.

"You gave me _sodding snakes_," Harry cried in disbelief. "Where'd you get the idea that I would _like_ them!"

"I gave you power, Harry. I gave you the power I was born with."

Harry stared. "What are you talking about?"

Tom smiled puzzlingly. "I'm a Parselmouth."

That word again. "Parselmouth?"

"It's very rare—someone who can talk to snakes. It's been very useful." Tom sighed and shook his head. "Don't be angry with me. I just wanted to share with you."

Harry didn't believe it. "Are you saying…are you saying I truly did it? I really did tell those snakes to stop, and me—and Weasley and Granger—we didn't just imagine it all?"

Tom nodded. His eyes were bright in his face now, excited. "You'll love it, Harry. Don't you understand how precious and vital it is, to be able to converse with an animal? Do you realize how useful it will be in the future?"

Harry looked away, at the slowly melting snow, at the shining birch branches, anywhere but Tom's charming face. "I don't envision myself living in snake-holes, sorry," he muttered.

Tom laughed good-naturedly and said, "Oh, fine, you don't have to like it," but Harry noticed he didn't offer to make him normal again. Well, what could it hurt, the younger boy supposed.

"You haven't been writing to me lately," Tom suddenly accused. "I missed you. It's a lonely life, being in a book. Not even a life." He was no longer jovial, and again Harry saw wistfulness in his face. "I miss it, Harry. Touching, and seeing, hearing, smelling. But most of all, I miss the magic…being able to do real magic."

His voice was so sad and grave Harry couldn't help feeling twinges of pity through his anger. "If it helps, you've probably outlived your real self," he offered, snapping an icicle off a tree branch and having a chew.

Tom was merry again. "Yes, and I'll be glad for that, for now at least. Look at me, talking about myself the entire time." He looked at Harry expectantly.

The boy sighed. He watched Tom for a moment, pondered at the way the black and red of his clothing contrasted with this gleaming white world before he began to talk. "Well, Malfoy's mad at me, for starters. I was a little sharp with him, and he left. I—I can't seem to help it nowadays. It's just, you, and—and—this," he waved his arms to indicate the wood, "this place seems so much more…alive and here with me than Hogwarts right now. And anything Malfoy does seems so petty nowadays."

Tom smiled. "You flatter me, Harry, and you place a lot of stock in your imagination. But you're right," he said gravely. "People like you and me, we're never satisfied with what we have, with the trivialness of routine life. We're malcontents. Some people call it greed—I think it's more of an ambition, really. It's why the Sorting Hat put us in Slytherin, after all, and it's why you return to me even when you want to kill me."

Harry was startled. "How'd you know—"

"When that snake bit you," Tom said, picking up Harry's hand and tracing the scar of the bite, "it gave me some of you at the same time that you received my power. Don't be startled; I'm merely a little more empathetic to you."

Harry swallowed and let his hand drop out of Tom's grip. "All right. As—as long as it's just that."

Tom's eyes brightened with cheer. "Yes, Harry, we're very much alike. You'll see that soon, if you don't already. And now, you probably ought to get some rest."

"But—" Harry could hardly protest, because the next moment the woods and Tom were gone, and so was he.

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	31. The Slimy Snake Lord of Slytherin

Thank you all for the lovely reviews (I'll be sure to return the platters). Now, I must say, I adore this chapter. Love it. Not as much as the dream sequence at the manor, but still, this one's close to my heart. I tried to put in a little humor for you guys. So I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Thirty-One: The Slimy Snake Lord of Slytherin

Malfoy stalked out of the Entrance Hall in a temper. Bloody Potter and his bloody dramatics. Of course, Malfoy'd lied—he had nothing he was to do. But maybe it was about time Potter realized he wouldn't sit around and wait for him to return to Earth all day.

The sky outside was dark, had been so for hours, but the handy thing about having access to an invisibility cloak was that not even that foul Mrs. Norris could spot him wandering about after curfew. Malfoy steered clear of the forest, choosing instead to plop down by the lake and throw rocks into the lake. As he thought more, he threw harder and harder, not even noticing the disturbances he made on the water's surface.

His friendship with Harry was supposed to be permanent, one of those happy little things that aren't meant to change. No matter how weird home life was or how hard school got, Harry always used to be there with a ready piece of fun in hand.

And now he was distant. Off somewhere in a place he wouldn't let Malfoy enter. And the self-professed narcissist didn't like it one bit.

Stupid loon, he thought now. 'Don't know the half of it,' my bum. If he wasn't snogging Ravenclaws or writing in that diary anymore, what could he be up to?

This is prying, a very Harry voice in his head told him. It's the wrong thing to do, especially to your best friend. It isn't right.

Malfoy snorted and got up, ceasing his siege against the lake. Bother what was right, he was Draco Malfoy and he was going to get to the bottom of this.

As he was walking back to the castle, having completely forgotten to put the Invisibility Cloak back on from where it rested in his robes, something hard and wet hit him in the shoulder blade. Turning around, he saw one of the stones he'd thrown at his feet, and a giant tentacle disappearing into the water.

"Well, sorry," he muttered. "Petty thing."

A moment later, following another thud: "Ack—goddamned squid!"

He was still wandering the halls when he heard voices coming from an empty classroom. Gleefully, he pressed his ear to the door, eager to eavesdrop.

"…still can't believe you agreed to come."

"Well, don't think it's like a regular thing or anything. This is only because you insisted, and because there hasn't been any time for chess lately."

A snort—"I thought you _loathed_ chess. 'Oh, how barbaric! Watch me tremble and sputter about my poor little bishop'—ow! Cool off, I was only joking."

Malfoy peered through the door crack, venturing to make it a little wider so he could see better. He barely made out the redheaded Weasel sitting with Harry's Ravenclaw at a table, and a sliver of what appeared to be a chessboard on the table between them.

"So have you tried going back to that room?"

"Room of Needing or Wanting or whatever…" Weasel's voice was a little sardonic. "'Course I have, looked all over the seventh floor at dinner yesterday. But it isn't there…it's like it vanished into the walls."

There was a pause, and Malfoy wondered whether or not they were talking about the Room of Requirement before the girl said hesitantly, "What about what—what happened, you know, with Harry Potter? That same day, with the snakes?"

Malfoy nearly fell over.

"Wonder what the school would think," the Weasel said, partly curious and partly gloating, "if they knew Harry Potter was a Parselmouth."

Malfoy could not contain his outraged cry of "WHAT?"

The next thing he knew, the Weasel and Granger had dragged him into the room and a hand was clapped over his mouth. After a few minutes of waiting for Filch to come and sniff them out, the other two let Malfoy go. "What are you doing here?" Ron hissed.

"Harry's a _Parselmouth?_!" Malfoy yelled again. Granger shushed him furiously.

"Do you _want _Filch to find us or something?" The Weasel whispered. Granger merely stood back, paling at the thought of being caught after curfew by the filthy Squib. If Malfoy hadn't been so preoccupied, he'd be relishing the sight of her quivering in her sneakers.

"Oh, I am so sorry for not reacting rationally, but I seem to have found out that my best friend is on his way to becoming The Slimy Snake Lord of Slytherin, and I am just the tiniest bit startled," the fair-haired boy said, sarcasm not fleeing in the face of bewilderment.

The Weasel snorted. "Right, and you're not just saying that 'cause you wish you'd done it first."

Malfoy spluttered, then regained his composure. "Listen, Weaselly," he hissed, leaning close to the redhead. "Just because you have jealousy complexes reaching as far as the moon doesn't mean the same goes for all of us. Get me, Hufflepuff?"

The Weasel got very red in the face and drew his arm back. Malfoy watched coolly as Granger predictably held the hot-tempered boy back. "Good job, Granger. My father keeps this leash at home—if you ever need to borrow it, don't hesitate to ask."

She glared at him. "Oh, I've no doubt your father's got lots of…interesting things at home."

He smirked at her, not falling prey to the insult. "And don't you forget it, Prefect." Both of them were glaring hatred at him now—a job well done, Malfoy thought proudly. "Well, I suppose I'd better go before one of you murders me and throws my body into the lake. I've pissed the squid off enough for one night."

He turned and walked away, satisfied that he was so good at pushing buttons. There was nothing like a little sarcasm to return him to a calm state of mind, but now that he left Weaselly and the girl, surprise and indecision flooded back to him.

Overwhelmed with questions for Harry, he didn't even notice the twin sets of eyes watching him as he consulted the map.

-----------------------------------------------------

Fred and George had had a rather good day. The sweets they'd been developing that would enable one to grow eyes in the back of the head had barely malfunctioned at all. Luckily, the first years they'd been tested on only complained a little when they'd begun sprouting eye-topped stalks like those little green aliens Muggles were always on about.

The point was, they'd sprouted _some _sort of eyes, and the sweets were now that much closer to completion. All they needed now was some billywig antennae from the school's Charms stores, which is why that evening found them wandering the school after hours. But this was really nothing new.

"You get it, George. I think I'm developing a very bad hangnail."

"Travesty. I accept."

As George opened the door to the Charms storeroom, Fred froze. "Oy! You hear those—"

"—footsteps, yeah, I hear them." George turned away from the door and hid with his twin behind a statue of Fyrgil the Foppish. The intruder walked along the other side of the corridor, and the twins were shocked when they saw him carefully studying—

"—it can't be!" George whispered in awe.

"It is! Look, there's that little rip on the left side, and what else would you be consulting late at night other than—"

"—the Map. He's got our map!" Fred and George looked at each other half-shocked, half-angered. They watched the thief step into a patch of moonlight.

"It's that Slytherin scum, Lucius Malfoy's brat," Fred said, his voice becoming gleeful.

George glanced at him merrily. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Fred only grinned back and pointed his wand at the lone figure, whispering, "_Petrificus totalus!_"

The figure froze mid-step and fell forwards stiffly, hitting the ground with a thud. The twins sauntered up to their victim and turned him over quickly. The Slytherin's eyes were darting around at them quickly, and if he could have moved his face it would be twisted in rage.

"You've got something of ours, boy," Fred chided.

"Ah, ah, ah," George said, wagging a finger. "Naughty of you to not return this to the proprietors. Now hand it over, kid—"

"Oh, George," Fred chided quietly. "He can't do it himself—lemme lend you a hand, young Master Malfoy."

He slipped the Marauder's Map from Malfoy's immobile fingers and muttered, "Mischief managed." As the Map went blank, he pocketed it and winked at Malfoy. "Thanks for keeping it safe for us, lad. See you around. Oh, and say hi to Filch for us, will you?"

And, laughing quietly about how much Ron would love to have seen this, the twins left Malfoy lying on the floor in the Charms wing, eyes roaming frantically in hope of friendly passerby.

But Filch would get there first, of course.

I've really got to learn to keep that bloody Invisibility Cloak on, Malfoy concluded the next morning.

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	32. Poetic Justice

The last chapter was quite lengthy...this chapter, not so much, harharhar. Sorry, guys. It's mostly banter--but lovely Harry & Malfoy banter, so I do hope you enjoy.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Poetic Justice

Harry had spent the night tossing and turning. There was no meeting with Tom in his dreams, nor anything really definable. Only shadows springing up around him that he could only glimpse out of the corner of his eye before he turning to see better and watching them dissipate. In all, it was a very frustrating thing to dream of.

When he awoke and had fumbled to put his glasses on, the first thing he'd noticed was that there had been no one there to wake him up. It was, the calendar showed, a Saturday, which generally meant that if Malfoy were to wake first he would rouse Harry so they would "suffer consciousness together," as the other boy put it. But Malfoy's bed was empty; something strange must have happened.

The next moment, the door of the dormitory banged open and the boy in question trudged in with a bitter look. Zabini and Nott stirred and muttered incomprehensibly; Crabbe and Goyle didn't budge a muscle. Malfoy took no notice of any of this, flopping down miserably on Harry's bed.

"Wha's going on?" Harry asked with a slight slur.

"They stole the map," Malfoy moaned.

"What!"

"Those disgusting Weasel twins. They found me, and they spelled me, and they took the Map." Malfoy stared gloomily at the ceiling.

Harry glanced at the other beds in the dormitory and said hurriedly, "Keep your voice down, first thing—and second, what do you mean they found you? Where did you go last night?"

Malfoy waved his hand dismissingly. "Just wandering around the halls. After dark, I mean. And I guess they were too, and they froze me and took it."

Harry ran a hand through his extremely messy hair, agitated. "Stole my map? My dad's map?"

Malfoy nodded; the effect was strange, what with him lying down. Suddenly he sat up and said fiercely, "You've got to get it back." Harry raised an eyebrow at this sudden change of mood. "No, I'm serious!" Malfoy almost yelled. "You HAVE to get it back. It's your dad and his mates what made it, and Filch found me when I woke up and now I've got detention, and—and—they called me _kid_. Those idiots had the nerve to—"

Harry held up his hands to quiet the boy. "Alright, alright, quit fussing, of course I'm going to get it. Who do you think we are, a couple of…er…lier-downers? And quit yelling before you wake everyone up."

"We'll have to find out how to get into their common room. When everyone else is gone—Hogsmeade weekend," Malfoy continued, a brooding look on his face. "It's next week, the visit, Filch is making me do detention that day." He looked up at Harry, his face smug. "You'll steal it back then, for me. Father always said plans require a little poetic justice."

Harry frowned. "I've got to get it back myself, then? How will I even get in there?"

Malfoy thought, then said, "Lag around their ugly little portrait hole a bit with the cloak on, and wait till someone says the password. Even you can pull this off."

Harry snorted. "Oh, even me, eh? Let's not overlook who lost the map in the first place."

"We'll get it back." Malfoy met Harry's bemused gaze squarely. Harry felt a little nostalgic: here they were, conspiring together like before, before he had the diary, before he met Tom. He saw Malfoy hesitate now and look down.

"So," the fair boy remarked in a cool tone. "You learned a whole new language and didn't bother to tell me?"

Harry stiffened. "What are you talking about?"

Malfoy laughed derisively. "Parseltongue."

Harry blinked. He vaguely remembered hearing something like that, but his mind drew a blank. "What's Parseltongue?"

His friend looked at him in disbelief. "You playing? You don't know, honestly?" He leaned in towards Harry. "Talked to any snakes lately?" he drawled.

Harry drew back, and his dream with Tom returned to memory. "I—but—how did you know?"

"Little bird. How in hell did you just pick up Parseltongue?" Malfoy asked incredulously.

"It's not such a big deal…" Harry said weakly, not sure if he believed that.

"Look, Potter, your parents are darling goody two shoes, but my family's gone back to generations of Dark wizards. And let me tell you, Parseltongue isn't something you just shrug off. That Slytherin bloke, one of the founders, he was a Parselmouth. And there've only been a few recorded ones since him: some necromancer in Italy, Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort. This is most definitely a big deal."

Harry sighed. "I, er, I got this Christmas present, see, and it—"

Malfoy gave him an insulted look. "Do you really expect me to believe that you got Parseltongue for Christmas?" Harry met the other's gaze squarely until Malfoy rolled his eyes and said, "All right, all right, that part doesn't matter. Who was it? Who taught it to you?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth for a moment, not sure what to say. "I don't really know…"

Malfoy glared at him, but was stopped from inquiring further by stirs in Theodore Nott's corner of the room. "The important thing," the fair boy said in a quieter voice, "is to get that map back. Then you can—you can get back to world conquest or whatnot. But I'm going to want more answers than your stupid 'dunnos' sooner or later, Potter."

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	33. The Right Ole Gryffindor Sort of Thing

Hello, my lovely, blessed readers! I hope you'll join me today in the latest piece of this epic monstrosity. Perhaps this chapter should be called "Hormones: In Which Harry's Heterosexuality is Sadly Revealed."

...Though I'm not above slashy subtext. And perhaps future 'alternate scenes.' Harharhar.

Enjoy! And drop me a line. All reviews are welcome.

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Right-Ole-Gryffindor Sort of Thing

The day of the Hogsmeade weekend, of Malfoy's detention, and of Harry's chance to steal back his dad's map dawned rainy and cold. He said goodbye to Malfoy, who was serving his time by pruning Greenhouse Three, in front of the doors of the Great Hall. As the other boy left for outdoors, the gusts of frigid air battered at the castle and at Harry. Before long a flood of students poured over Harry and out the doors into the icy rain towards Hogsmeade, and his time had come.

Although the weather was so ghastly, the halls were empty and most of the remaining older students were busying themselves in the library. Harry wrinkled his nose at the notion, then started towards the Gryffindor Tower.

It was lucky they'd had the map; he knew every corner of the castle and had no trouble finding the headquarters of All Ye Saints of Hogwarts. Pulling the invisibility cloak over himself, he stood quietly in the corner waiting for someone to come along and reveal the password. He must have been there only for fifteen minutes, though they were to him uncommonly long minutes, before a first-or-second year scampered up to that revolting portrait of some fat woman and said, "Higglewash."

Harry grinned wolfishly under his cloak. Run along, little piggy, he thought happily. He was in his element now; sneaking and poking around brazenly, with Malfoy, usually, by his side. He waited a few minutes to make sure the little boy was gone, then took the cloak off and said, "Higglewash" to the portrait.

The woman's brow wrinkled in confusion at the sight of him, but she admitted him with a swing anyway. Once he'd clambered inside stealthily, he put the cloak back on and crept over to a corner.

He'd been in the Gryffindors' common room twice before, both times uninvited and both times with Malfoy in tow. This time he was alone, and this time he had a lot less to watch out for. The only people littered around here were the majority of the first and second years, who weren't allowed any Hogsmeade visits yet and who were thankfully all facing away from the portrait hole. This was too easy.

He took the cloak off and walked toward the stragglers as if he'd just gotten in. "Oy, you lot," he said harshly, "clear out, hear me? I've got work to do."

The younger students all whipped around to look at him warily. They wouldn't recognize him, he hoped, but then again they themselves knew their minds were too focused on the freshness of Hogwarts. They wouldn't possibly know the face of every upper-year Gryffindor. It only took a few minutes for Harry to persuade them that he had a long studying ahead of him for O.W.L.s and they scattered out.

Now Harry put the cloak back on and made his way up the stairs to the Seventh Year Boys' dormitory. There was no one in there; he kept the cloak on just in case, a lesson that Malfoy still hadn't learned.

The twins' beds were on the far side of the rooms. It was obvious—fireworks poked out of the hangings on the beds, parchment was scattered all over the floor, and the other inhabitants of the room had constructed a sort of fort between their beds and the twins' to ward off the explosions and any other strange happenings. The two were notorious for mishaps.

Harry wasn't impressed, however; you couldn't live with James Potter and Sirius Black without developing a sort of immunity to being awed by this kind of thing. Uncle Lupin himself had confided to Harry that many of their house-mates had petitioned to kick Sirius and James out of the tower in their day, or to give them one of their own. Harry made his way to the far side of the dormitory and began rummaging through the trunks and the beds, even prying up loose floorboards.

This was his father's map, damn it, and no two-bit comedians were going to steal it from him.

Despite his determination, the search led him nowhere. He glanced out the window (how unused he was to the notion of having _windows_ in a dormitory) and saw that the sky was darkening through the blurred, rain-stained glass. People would start returning in about half an hour. He put the strange-looking sweets, the funny instruments, and all the rest of the Weasleys' dubious property roughly back where it had been.

Sighing with frustration, Harry made his way downstairs. He'd have to try to get the map back another time, but it would be harder—he couldn't wait for the next Hogsmeade weekend. But if he got caught now, it'd all be for nothing. This was, Harry would reflect later, one of the biggest differences between him and Malfoy: Harry knew when to quit.

There was a problem with his retreat, he saw when he was back in the common room. For there, curled up on the sofa, was a redheaded girl: the littlest Weasley.

From her wet hair, Harry knew she'd come in from outside. She was shivering slightly and staring into the merry fire that crackled in the hearth. Her fierce-looking cat was against her side, but she didn't seem to be aware. Harry could see that her eyes were slightly glazed and half-closed from watching the flames.

She wasn't facing the way out, nor did it seem like she would notice the portrait hole swinging open of its own accord. But something rooted Harry to the spot—something in the way her long, wet curls stuck to her face, contrasting like ringlets of blood on white horizons; the yellow glow of the fire on pale, cold skin; even the up-and-down movement she made with her slow breathing. Under the cloak, Harry felt his face go warm and something in his chest jumped a little. He was a little scared and confused by what was happening, and tried to pass it off as simple curiosity.

However long he stared, as transfixed by her as she was by the fire, he didn't know, but it was too long. The portrait hole suddenly swung open behind the both of them, and as Harry broke away from his daze angrily, a crowd of Gryffindors surged in. The Weasel girl sat up quickly and watched as the new arrivals tramped in mud and rainwater and noise; Harry nearly cursed aloud as he moved to avoid the pack. In all the confusion, he was able to slip out of the common room and make his way back to his own.

Down in the dungeons, he finally removed the cloak and a few moments later Malfoy was beside him, mud-splattered and scratched up (the plants in Greenhouse Three had nasty dispositions). "Well?" Malfoy asked. "Did you get it back?"

Harry shook his head with a frown. "It wasn't there. They must carry it on them."

Malfoy glared bitterly at the floor. "Lousy prats. What are we going to do?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm thinking confront them. Tell them the map is my dad's and that giving it back is the right-ole-Gryffindor sort of thing to do."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Do you honestly think that'll work?" he drawled.

"Of course not, we'll just attack them. I'm not delusional," Harry responded.

He went to bed that night trying to understand the feeling he'd had in the common room with the girl; failing this, he turned to quashing it. But the dream he had completely ignored his efforts.

This time, he was the one to approach Tom in the clearing. Now there was a frozen pond lying in the midst of the trees like a giant mirror, and the older boy was already there, kneeling by it with one leg. As Harry drew closer, he saw the Weasel girl's face in the pond and froze.

"What's going on?" he asked Tom quickly.

"She's pretty," he replied, ignoring Harry's question. "Has a sort of feral look about her, doesn't she, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing special." The anger he felt at her for confusing him like this had returned, intensified by his bewilderment at having someone intrude on the place he shared with Tom.

The boy laughed. "If you say so, Harry. That only makes it easier for us both."

Harry was, for the umpteenth time that day, bewildered by this, and no sooner had he opened his mouth to ask Tom what he meant did the dream end.

---------------------------------------------


	34. A Service to Mischievious Youngsters

This chapter is a) somewhat plotty, but most importantly b) a quest to give Ginny some personality--a quest many of us, I am sure, have had to take. She is simply unlikeable; her immense change of attitude between book 4 and book 5 just shows the reader she is fickle and confusing, and no one likes a fluctuating character or a blurrily drawn portrait. The odd thing is she becomes rather important in this story (obviously--Tom Riddle and Ginny go hand-in-hand).

I was always hoping something cool would come out of the fact that Ginny was possessed by the Dark Lord, that it would make her intuitive or withdrawn or something _other_ than Popular Sell-out Cheerleader Equivalent. Shy, clumsy Ginny was annoyingly amusing; I simply don't know how to feel about New Ginny, especially as Harry's love interest. Their relationship in the books is dull and undramatic--something that the two of them no doubt enjoy, but hardly satisfies readers who enjoy complicated, twisty-turny romance.

Or maybe we've all had just a bit too much slash intake :

Anyhoo, here it is. I hope my version of Ginny is pleasing. I enjoy the sort of rising-from-rags side of her; the fact that she always has to make do with hand-me-downs, the idea that this, along with having six brothers, must in some sense make her insecure. Make her want something special just for herself. But that's just my interpretation. Enjoy.

Chapter Thirty-Four: A Service to Mischievous Youngster Everywhere

The Hogsmeade visit hadn't gone at all the way Ginny wanted it to. She'd gone in an attempt to talk to Ron, make him come around. This was the fifth Christmas he'd spent away from home, and Ginny thought he was being very stubborn about hating the lot of them.

She'd found him in Honeydukes, which wasn't surprising, and he had been talking to a brown-haired girl, which was surprising. When Ginny had shown up, he'd stiffened and asked her, "D'you need something?"

Ginny had nodded. "Yes, I do need something. I need to talk to you about—er—I need to talk to you alone."

The other girl's eyes had flicked shrewdly to Ron's face, which was becoming a glare very rapidly. "I'm a bit busy here."

Ginny had rolled her eyes. "I'm sure that Cockroach Cluster can wait, Ron. Just give me a minute."

He'd shrugged at his friend and gone to join Ginny in a corner of the shop. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend," Ginny'd accused.

Ron had scoffed and said, "Don't be bloody thick. I'm not even sure me and Granger are friends."

"That's a bit my point too, actually," she'd continued, ignoring him. "I dunno anything about you lately. You don't come home for the hols, you avoid me and Fred'n'George like the plague—"

"You can hardly blame me, it's not as if they're really bursting with Hufflepuff pride every time I walk up—" Ron had said sarcastically.

"That's not fair, Ron. For, well, for Fred'n'George, they've been as nice as they get," she'd burst out in exasperation, not noticing that she was raising her voice. "You know they don't think any worse of you just 'cause you didn't get sorted the way mum wanted. That's what this entire stupid mess is about, anyway, you pitying yourself and imagining that we're sniggering about you over something completely pointless—"

"No!" Ron had yelled loudly. "You have no idea what this is about. It's all very well and good for you, 'poor ickle Ronniekins, black sheep of the family, everything he owns is rubbish, everything he does isn't half as good as how Bill would've done it.' It's pretty easy for you all."

Ginny had snorted loudly, pinching the faded jeans and large t-shirt she wore under her cloak. "As if I don't wear yours and the twins' hand-me-downs, as if that weren't half my wardrobe. And you lot never had these," she'd snapped, indicating her chest in a rather grabby manner and watching Ron blush with indignation.

"Ginny!" he'd yelled, scandalized. That seemed to break the spell around them, and the two Weasleys had finally noticed the crowd around them. Ron had then faced her angrily again and said, "Granger's still waiting. There's nothing else I have to say."

As he left, Ginny had yelled after him, her face blazing, "We're not finished here!" before stomping back up to the castle through the pouring rain. No, things definitely hadn't gone smoothly.

When she reached the Fat Lady, the portrait had exclaimed, "Another one of you upper-years! My, my, you do take your studies seriously!" Ginny had no idea what she was talking about, because the common room was empty, actually, of everyone. Woman's going mad, she thought. Spending all that time on the wall must be brain-addling.

And so an hour or two had been spent in a brood, Ginny watching the fire burn until the common room was full of bustle once more. After the room had more or less cleared out, Fred and George approached her.

"Have a nice row with Ron?" George asked innocently.

Ginny gave a mirthless laugh. "The nicest. You heard, then?"

Fred replied, "The whole village heard. Really, talking in private is usually executed in indoor voices."

"He's being thickheaded," Ginny said fiercely.

"And he has been, for about five years, Gin," Fred pointed out. "But c'mon, we've got something to show you."

They led her out of the common room and to a secluded corridor, the floor muddied and wet despite the glowing torches. "Now, Ginny," Fred began, "as you know, me and George are in our last year at this magical learning institution—"

"—I'm going to miss Snape the most, that slimy git," George intercepted. "Think I'll leave him a few Dungbombs to remember us by." Ginny laughed.

"Yes, well, we're leaving in a few months, and our legacy must be passed on to future generations. And since Ronniekins hasn't gotten that broomstick up his ass looked at yet, we have decided to pass the secret of our success to you."

Ginny raised her brows. "Secret?"

For an answer, George took out a blank piece of parchment. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." And Ginny watched curiously as a map of Hogwarts spread out across the empty page.

" 'The Marauder's Map.' Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?" she asked. "You gave yourselves, what, two nicknames each or something?"

"Oh, heavens no, we didn't make it," Fred smiled. "More like it made us. It shows everyone, everything, everywhere. Very handy, and seeing as we won't be here for much longer, it's time we gave it to you."

"Why now?" Ginny asked. "Bit of a random time, if you ask me."

"We just got it back!" George said gleefully. "Found some Slytherin messing about with it a couple nights ago. I'm not really sure how he got his paws on it—"

"—we lost it to Filch, after our second year, so it's anybody's guess, really—"

"—but the important thing," Fred concluded with mock-pomp, "is that we are granting you this priceless, priceless gift. Don't lose it—and always remember, young grasshopper, to wipe it blank when you've finished with it. Just say, 'mischief managed,' see?"

The map went blank. Ginny had to admit, she was awed. She took the map from George's hands, looking up at her twin brothers, as usual, in admiration. "Thanks," she said with a grin.

George waved a hand. "It's nothing at all. Think of it as a service to mischievous youngster everywhere, and also one step closer to giving Percy an aneurysm. We memorized the map by the end of first year, and we don't mind being caught all that much. And we reckon you deserve a break from all the coddling you get at home."

"Make us proud," Fred said roguishly.

"Just, er…" the twins looked at each other, then said quickly together, "don't breathe a word of this to mum."

Ginny shook her head proudly. "Never," she promised. She had an advantage now, over all the kids with the new robes and expensive broomsticks, over Filch and his nasty Mrs. Norris, over everyone who walked these halls not knowing what lay beyond each portrait and tapestry.

She could do so much with this scrappy piece of parchment, illuminated by the torches on the walls. She could wander the school at night. She could have adventures and secrets and knowledge to satisfy her curiosity. She could do such lovely, dreamt-of things.

------------------------------


	35. Change of Scene

You've all been waiting for it--Harry's Super Fun Descent into Evil!

Well, really, this is more like Harry Tests the Plastic Kiddie Slide of Evil. Or maybe Harry Dips His Toes Into the Inflatable Rubber Pool of Evil. But hey, it's something, I'll say that much. This is a very transitional chapter and I really enjoyed writing it, especially the new scenery, so I hope you guys like it.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Change of Scene

Try as he might, Harry wasn't able to retrieve his father's map. No matter where he saw them, the twins never seemed to have it handy. And he knew that what he'd said to Malfoy was all talk: if it came to a confrontation, the Weasels were unfortunately older, more skilled, and therefore more likely to beat the living snot out of him.

The remaining winter months passed in their slushy, drippy glory; the fifth-years became occupied with studying for their O.W.L.s. Harry had to divide his time between work, Malfoy, and Tom. At the same time, Ron Weasley more of his free time around Hermione Granger, trying to loosen her up despite the fact that she became unbearable in a blur of studying and color-coded schedules. Unbeknownst to him, his little sister was busy as well, discovering an entirely different side of Hogwarts from wandering it at night, map in hand and her cat Dog keeping lookouts.

May arrived, the weather still chilly and a little rainy, though the sun made a few appearances. Harry and Malfoy stayed up late finishing the assignments they were bothered to do; the night before the last Quidditch match, Harry fell asleep quickly, hoping for a deep, dreamless night.

He was disappointed and, actually, a little happy to find himself back in the place he always met Tom. However, he was startled to find that the gray skies and snowy woods had suddenly disappeared, to be replaced with a golden summer field capped with a cloudless blue sky that he rarely saw at Hogwarts.

Tom was lying elegantly on a slope of the tall, golden grass. "Hello, Harry," he said as the younger boy lay down beside him.

"Change of scene?" Harry inquired, plucking a stalk and chewing on it in the corner of his mouth.

"I think you've got summer on the brain. This place is in your head, after all, not mine," Tom said, laughing a little.

Harry grinned. "Yeah, that's probably it. These O.W.L.s are a right pain in the bum."

"I remember taking those. Luckily, school came rather easy to me," Tom said thoughtfully.

Harry snorted. "Lucky for you. Me 'n Malfoy have been up till two each night with all the homework they keep dumping on us."

"How are things between you two, anyway?"

Harry paused to consider. "Better. He's still sour at me for not getting the map my dad and his friends made, and he's still asking a lot of questions about the whole, er, Parseltongue thing. But with all the studying, he's too exhausted to be too angry."

Tom turned on his side and faced Harry. Harry noticed that his heavy black cloak and red scarf were gone, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up with the tie unfastened. "What do you say to him when he asks about Parseltongue?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno…mainly I just mumble something so he can't hear, and he gets exasperated and lets me change the subject."

Tom grinned. "I'm sorry I got you in a mess. I thought you'd be happy, really. But at least now we get to share something."

Harry chewed his stalk harder, hoping his anxiety didn't show on his face. However he felt about Tom being able to see with his eyes, where he went and what he did, he definitely wasn't as happy about it as Tom was. But he didn't want to offend his friend—he was one of the closest that Harry had, besides Malfoy.

He looked back at Tom, slightly surprised to see him gazing around at the field wistfully. "I can see the summer sky, and feel the warm breeze, and smell the wheat, here," Tom said softly. "But it isn't real. I haven't felt real ground beneath my feet in so long." He turned his gaze onto Harry. "I miss my body. I miss being alive."

Harry heard the pleading in Tom's voice and nearly shuddered. "What are you trying to say?" he asked slowly.

Tom sat up and put his hand on Harry's arm. "Would you help me, Harry, to be alive again?"

Harry had always known the question would be brought up again, and wasn't surprised. He avoided it for a few moments by murmuring, "The sky and the grass don't usually look this good in the real world, anyway."

"Harry."

He sat up as well. "What you're talking about is necromancy, Tom, isn't it?"

Tom shook his head. "No. I'm not dead, I'm not a corpse. You wouldn't be unleashing a zombie on your friends. I'm a memory—I just need a vessel…"

"A body," Harry finished for him sharply.

"Harry, I know you, and you know me too. You love me—I am one of your closest friends, aren't I? What is one sacrifice for friendship?" His hand strayed to Harry's cheek as the other boy realized what Tom was asking him.

He drew away quickly. "You're asking me to kill someone!"

"I'm asking you to exchange one meaningless life for a more important one," Tom said softly.

Harry shook his head, springing to his feet. "It doesn't make it right—I can't kill—"

Tom rose as well, but slowly and coolly. "Doesn't our friendship matter, Harry? What is one life balanced against mine? I know you yourself have thought how much more real I seem than the people around you. How can something that happens everyday be so wrong, anyway?"

Harry turned away. "No. Not a chance. I can't kill someone, don't you understand? That's a crime, they'd lock me away in Azkaban—"

Tom's breath was on his neck; he'd approached him from behind. "There are other ways to bring me into physical being, Harry," he spoke into the boy's ear, voice turning soft and dangerous. "I could possess you, and drain you until there's nothing left, and I will grow more and more real." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder, making sure Harry could feel the edges of his fingernails.

Harry's breath hitched. "You can't do that—not to me…"

"I don't want to, Harry, I don't want to. Don't you see how much better it would be if you did what I asked?"

Harry whipped around. "I'm not going to kill someone for you, Tom," he said firmly, watching Tom's expressionless features warily. "But I want you to promise me you won't—you won't possess me, or drain me, or…" he trailed off, aware of Tom's grip on his arm.

The handsome boy smiled sadly. "Of course not. You know I'd never do anything like that—not to you, Harry." He sighed and turned away. "Perhaps, someday, a chance will come—"

"Maybe," Harry interrupted. "But I'm not going to become a murderer, today or any day."

Tom faced him again, and smiled secretly. He had no need to touch Harry to make him feel reassured or welcome. All he needed was to speak, or to listen, and Harry was his again. "All right," he said, "good luck on your O.W.L.s."

The golden field and the beautiful sky faded away as Tom walked over the crest of the hill they'd been sitting on and out of sight.

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	36. Descent

Ooh! Oooh!

No, I have not got ants in the pants--I am excited because in this chapter _things happen!_ They do, they really do, I promise.

Okay, I guess I'm being stupid, things must have been happening before. But now they _really importantly_ happen. And oddly enough, it is a very short chapter. I'm babbling like a goose; I'm sorry. Also sorry for the long wait. Right. Yes. I've been slightly busy.

Enjoy, my friends! (Thanks for all the reviews, I didn't even notice that I had reached 300. Ah, and I am proud to say that my titchy fanbase has found its way over to the Africas, where the lovely Laura presides. Woohoo.)

Chapter Thirty-Six: Descent

Harry's quill scratched wearily across the parchment as he listened to Malfoy snoring. They'd been in the common room, trying to finish essays for Potions that were already two days late, when Malfoy had fallen asleep of boredom. It had been weeks since his dream of Tom in the golden field, and in every dream since Tom had acted normally, despite the wistful tone his speech often took on. The world outside was resembling that place in Harry's mind more and more as June settled in, and the end of school was approaching quickly.

First, however, came the dreaded O.W.L. exams, which began in the afternoon of the day after tomorrow. Harry was determined to finish the essay that night, because Snape had warned him of a week's detention if it was late another day. Malfoy, of course, got off with a "your father would be displeased to see you tarry on your work, boy." The young man in question, however, was now sprawled over an uncomfortable green armchair and, Harry noticed with amusement, had a slight drool coming on.

The essay took another twenty minutes to finish. Harry rolled it up with a triumphant flourish and left to go downstairs into his dormitory. At the top of the staircase, he bumped into Goyle. The thicker boy, who was sleepy and therefore even less graceful than during the daytime, stumbled and waved his arms akimbo for balance.

Harry couldn't understand what happened next. He had reached out with his own hands to help Goyle up, but all of a sudden those hands had shot out and shoved Goyle firmly to send him jangling down the stairs. Falling, Goyle's hands grabbed at the air, closing over the rolled-up essay in Harry's hand and ripping it in two as the boy continued falling.

Harry gasped a moment later, when Goyle lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs. He rushed down to him, still unable to understand perfectly what had just transpired.

Goyle's expression, Harry was loathe to admit, was as stupid and confused as it was when he'd been alive. He was facing up, and his neck was twisted in an impossible manner, the shredded essay lying next to him. Harry stared in shock, first at the dead boy, then at his own hands.

And then something appeared in the corner of his eye. A flicker in the air, a strange coloration. Harry turned his head and gasped. There, beside Goyle at the bottom of the stairs, was the apparition of Tom Riddle.

"Hello, Harry."

-----------------------------------

Ron groaned and covered his head with a pillow. "Hermione, please, no more studying—" They were in the library, cramming for the first exam, Theory of Charms. Then again, one could hardly call it cramming, since Ron had been subject to Hermione's military-like study schedule since May.

She removed the pillows from his ears deftly and chided, "You've got to study, Ron; O.W.L.s start in two days. Just two more weeks left after today—I know you've got in it you."

"Got what in me?" Ron asked miserably. "Is it boredom? There's definitely boredom."

"Got it in you to do well," Hermione said impatiently. "Now, go on, how do you perform a tickling charm?"

For an answer, Ron glared at her and muttered what he thought to be the right incantation. However, the spell that burst out of his wand didn't send Hermione over in giggles; rather, a second nose appeared on her forehead.

"There's definitely room for improvement," she said acidly, gingerly feeling her new nose. "Nice work on the nostril detail, though," the girl commented. Ron sighed and prepared himself for a long night.

--------------------------------------------

Ginny Weasley had no invisibility cloak, nor did she know how to use her wand to make herself unseen. But in a short month, she'd managed to become a rival in Fred and George's game of sneaking around at night. With Dog prowling alongside her and the Marauder's Map in her hand, she wandered the school every other night, getting to know each hallway and staircase.

She'd nearly been caught by Filch countless times, and he'd succeeded at it about once out of every ten scrapes. Detentions with him had been arduous and horribly boring, and stumbling into her dormitory dead on her feet each morning after wasn't fun, but Ginny wouldn't trade her night-time exploits for clean hands or un-bagged eyes any day.

She'd discovered a portrait of some ancient wizard on the fifth floor that opened up to a tunnel ending in a charming balcony high above the grounds; a room that she only found after several tries and changed each time she visited, though she had yet to understand its purpose; a tapestry concealing a door which guarded a very beautiful chamber, filled with strange musical instruments that even a born and bred witch like her had never seen.

Her dorm-mates guessed that she had a secret boyfriend, or some sort of pet in the Forbidden Forest. Laughing, she encouraged these rumors, confiding to some people that the secret boy was a tall and dashing Ravenclaw whose family couldn't stand her, and at other times that the pet was in fact a Chimera to whom she was feeding the House-elves. The ruse was delightful, and also helped conceal her real purpose, even if very few people probably believed it.

Part of her knew she was going to get into trouble. Nothing good comes of sneaking around, poking your nose where it doesn't belong, that part whispered.

But she ignored it. Really, what was the harm in indulging a little curiosity?

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	37. Porcelain

Errr...

I am _so_ sorry.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Porcelain

"Aren't you glad to see me?" Tom's voice was distant, faraway, but there and then. This was not the diary, not Harry's imagination. They were in the Slytherin Common Room, far away from the bright and snowy woods, from the beautiful golden field.

Harry's eyes roamed from Malfoy asleep in the armchair to Goyle lying dead beside him to the misty memory that stood not four feet away.

"You're not real—you're s'posed to be in my head," Harry whispered dazedly. He tentatively put a hand out towards Tom; it passed straight through his body.

"You gave me life," the boy murmured just as quietly, looking at Goyle. Harry, suddenly grasping his meaning, shuddered.

"You did it—you made me push him—you made me kill him!" Harry cried, horrified. "I'm a murderer…"

"Harry, that's impossible," Tom said soothingly. "You are your own master. You wanted him to fall; you wanted to make me real."

"No!"

"Yes. There's no use denying it. And watch…his life fled quickly. It will be mine soon." Tom peered intently at his hands, and Harry watched numbly as the apparition slowly solidified, becoming more vivid, harder to see through. When he looked back at Goyle, the dead boy with the blank stare seemed to be fading in turn.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked in a hushed tone. Tom didn't answer, still staring at his skin. A few seconds passed.

Goyle's body was gone. Tom smiled and reached one hand out to touch Harry's cheek. This time, Harry could feel it: flesh and blood, a soft, cool sensation.

The moment was broken by a snore from Malfoy's direction. "I think," Tom said quietly, "that we should find somewhere more private to talk, don't you?"

Harry, still reeling, gathered up the pieces of his essay and stuffed them in pocket. He managed to cover the two of them with the Invisibility Cloak. Ten minutes later, they sat in the Room of Requirement, which had turned itself into a bedroom for Tom's purposes.

The newly-made boy sat on the bed, sipping a cup of hot tea that the room had left him on the bedside table, while Harry's own cup sat where it had been. He was sitting against the wall, his head in his hands, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"What are you thinking?" Tom finally asked, setting down his teacup.

Harry raised his head and stared at Tom in disbelief. "What? Can't you tell? Can't you poke around in my brain, like you've been doing?" he asked raggedly.

Tom laughed softly. "Harry, no need for such harsh manners. I don't exist in your mind anymore. I'm solid matter now. I'm sorry if you find yourself missing our place…it was certainly pretty, wasn't it?"

Harry couldn't imagine how Tom could be so calm…he'd just killed someone. No, Harry thought, what if it really was me? My decision? My choice to throw Goyle down those stairs? His mind whirled; he cradled his head once more.

"I suppose I'll stay here for now," Tom said thoughtfully. "Though I must catch up with the times…not that you aren't a wonderful resource for news, but you wouldn't mind bringing me some books from the library, would you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Sure. Fine. I'll do it."

Tom grinned. "Don't worry about a thing. No one can trace you to this. There's no body after all; and I doubt anyone will really care that Gregory Goyle is gone…"

At this, the blood roared furiously in Harry's ears. He leapt up and yelled, "How can you say that?! How can you talk about this like I'd just trodden on a cockroach? Sitting there, with your stupid smile and your tea and your damned new self—" In a rush of anger, Harry seized the cup out of Tom's fingers and threw it at the door. Porcelain lay glittering, reminding him of Malfoy dropping the mug at his house over the Christmas holiday.

Tom stood, after a few moments in which Harry's chest heaved up and down as he tried to regain himself, and spoke earnestly, soothingly, at him: "I'm sorry, Harry. It's just that I haven't been alive for so long…you don't know how good it feels, simply to feel anything at all. To hear your voice out loud, to smell the spices in that tea, to touch." His hand strayed to his own face, relishing the contact. "I can't help but smile." Harry looked away.

"I'm sorry about Goyle; it was an accident, really. You wouldn't hurt anyone, I know that. Don't be upset over it. We've got things to do, you and me," Tom added, smiling gently. Harry was too distraught to even bother asking what the boy was planning.

"I'll get the books," he muttered. "Tomorrow, you'll get them in the morning. Stay here, you understand? Don't leave the castle."

Tom laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Harry tugged the Invisibility Cloak on and left Tom, still fumbling in his mind. We're in this together, he told himself firmly. I brought him back, and I have to make sure things turn out all right.

Malfoy was still in the common room when Harry got back. The door opening jolted the fair-haired boy back to consciousness. "Harry?" he murmured. "What's going on?"

"Went out for a snack," Harry said shortly.

Malfoy nodded and struggled to rise. Harry helped him up and they made their way down to the dormitory. "Finish your essay?" Malfoy asked sleepily.

Harry felt the scraps of parchment in his pocket as they opened the door at the foot of the stairs.

"No."

---------------------------------------------------

The next day, Harry awoke from a dreamless night. Odd, he thought, that he hadn't seen Tom in their usual meeting place. He got out of bed and opened his hangings, noticing that one of the beds was empty, the curtains still open.

It was Goyle's.

Memories of last night flooded back to him. He staggered and sat down on the bed quickly. But it might have all been a dream…Goyle wasn't dead, just because his four-poster was empty. Harry looked out checked his watch and saw that it was already ten o'clock. Goyle was probably in class, and he, Harry, might have overslept because of his late night—

Across the room, the hangings on Malfoy's bed opened and the boy emerged, tousle-headed. "You're not in class," Harry blurted stupidly.

Malfoy squinted at him. "Yeah. So?"

Harry blinked. "Aren't we late? For class?"

"Have you gone daft, Potter?" The boy was managing to drawl even this early in the morning. "It's Sunday, stupid." Malfoy paused, looking around. "Where's Goyle got to?"

Harry sprang up and started dressing. "I've got to go to the library."

Malfoy asked incredulously, "What, now? Why?"

"Er—O.W.L.s. You know." Harry dared hope, his heart thudding much too loudly as he rushed to the library despite Malfoy's protests, that he'd get to the Room of Requirement and it would be empty.

But did he want it to be empty? If only he had the map, he could check and see, but the thieving twins had been long ago driven from his mind.

He wondered what to get for Tom. Some sort of "Great Wizarding Mumbo Jumbo of the Twentieth Century" title, Harry guessed. Madame Vulture's beady eyes rounded in surprise as he entered the library—perhaps, she thought, even the less serious fifth-years were doing last-minute O.W.L. cramming. But these thoughts were dispelled when she saw that Harry was checking out _Magical Progression of the Late 1900s_ and _Knows and Knots: Strange Puzzles of Twentieth Century Magic_.

Harry made his way up the stairs to the seventh floor, clutching the books so tightly that his knuckled turned white. No Tom, no Tom, no Tom, he prayed. But the boy awaited him, lounging over the cushy bed, with a friendly grin that confused Harry and made him wonder just what he was so afraid of.

Tom took the books and his smile broadened. "Thanks, Harry. I'm sure these'll be a big help. But you still look distraught…"

Harry sat on the bed beside the older boy. He stared at his hands, much like Tom had been in awe of his own last night. But this was no fascinated gawk, no amazed reverie; Harry was checking for the bloodstains that should surely have appeared by now, to add a poetic feel to the whole damn situation. Harry's hands, however, were clean—as clean as a fifteen-year-old boy's could be.

Tom must have realized that Harry was beyond words; he scooted close and pulled his fingers through Harry's messy, unkempt hair. "It's going to be all right," he whispered soothingly, though Harry could hear a snake's hiss at the far edge of Tom's voice. "You brought me here, in one piece, and I'll never forget it, Harry."

Unconsciously, the boy leaned against Tom, and Tom let him stay that way for a while before Harry stirred and got up. "Take this to the owlery and deliver it for me, will you, Harry?" Tom asked before the other left. Harry took the envelope and nodded.

"I'll be back tonight, maybe," he said to Tom before leaving and inspecting the envelope. It was addressed to Lucius Malfoy; of course, Harry thought dully. The memory-turned-boy may not respect his friend's father, but he must be the only one apart from Harry who knew what was happening. He'd probably known all along, wanting it to be his own son who released Tom, and so he'd sent the diary.

But what Harry couldn't figure out, as he mailed the letter (he didn't bother trying to open it; Tom, having taken Goyle's wand last night, had no doubt sealed it shut with magic) was why Tom Riddle was so bloody important in the first place. He was a first-rate wizard, of course, the enchantment on the diary had proven that. He had his way with words, and his way with people, obviously. But what made him worth bringing back to life fifty years after he'd died?

And why would Lucius Malfoy of all people want this to happen?

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	38. Psychopathic Murderer Bloke

Hello all! Yes, I am dead. Yes, I have been surfing on vacation all year/summer. Yes, I have been kidnapped by a sadistic terrorist organization for ransom.

Now that that's all done, a word: This summer is really the end of Harry Potter, isn't it? Forget the last two movies. The books are where it's at. We know what'll happen in the movies, though we cannot predict who will be assigned random ridiculous caterpillar mustaches or bald cantaloupe heads. But no matter; as a sort of send-off to the series, I'm going to try posting the last few chapters of my current monstrosity before tomorrow midnight. (I wrote this stuff like a year ago. Shame, shame.)

My last comment: I feel, like a lot of you feel, I am sure, that I am the only person on Earth who has truly read Harry Potter. I cannot imagine it any other way. Sort of like I can't imagine the world going on if I am not present or conscious. And so these books, read by billions of people worldwide, are my very own in my little odd Brain World and as close to my heart as my life is; it's not an offensive or insulting thing. It is simply the way my mind functions. I'm sure I'm not alone on this one.

Please enjoy :

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Psychopathic-Murderer-Bloke

The night before the fifth-years were to take their O.W.L exams, Ginny Weasley had a huge problem.

Her regular nightly routine of wandering around till about four in the morning and then making her way back to bed for a few hours of sleep was disrupted by the presence of Filch, pacing determinedly in front of the entrance to the common room. Ginny watched him on the map, his little dot never wavering from its course, forward, back, forward, back.

She should have known this would happen; the third time she was caught, he'd threatened, "You're no good, no good at all, little miss! You think I dunno what you're up to, but I warrant you I'll find out." She'd laughed it off then, but now she was tired and sleepy and had nowhere she could go, unless she let Filch catch her. And this was not an option: she was sure he'd write to Mum then, and there'd be hell to pay.

She suddenly remembered the room she'd found on the seventh floor, the one that seemed to change a lot into whatever she needed most. It was hard to reach and most people, she was sure, couldn't know about it. A good place to spend the night as any.

Ginny climbed her way quietly up each flight of stairs. Then she heard a noise, somewhere around the sixth floor, where the Hufflepuff common room was. She hid quickly in the shadows, but saw that it was only a girl a year or two older than her. She looked a little lost and worried, so Ginny decided to help her out.

"Hey!" she called softly. The girl whipped her long black plait of hair around and looked for the source of the noise. Ginny stepped out of her corner and reassured, "It's just me—don't worry."

The girl's expression became relieved. "Thought you might've been Filch, or Peeves," she said.

Ginny grinned. "Neither, sorry to disappoint. What are you doing out here?"

"The suit of armor over there, he's the one we give our password to, but he feel asleep after I got back from the loo. I don't wanna try to wake him…he might make a racket and wake everyone up. So I've got nowhere to go." The girl, Ginny saw, must be a Hufflepuff. She looked slightly familiar.

Wanting to know her name, Ginny held out her hand. "I'm Ginny," she offered. "I'm shut out of my dorm, too."

The girl shook it. "Susan. Do you know anywhere we could go?"

Ginny nodded, glad to be useful. "There's a room I know on the seventh floor—it's a pretty good place to hide out, I think. C'mon."

She led the girl to the strange, changing room. "Last time, I was looking for a room that'd excite me, and after I walked a bit, it was there—it was full of funny little instruments and knickknacks to play with…" Ginny trailed off, walking across the stretch of hallway several times, asking it for a place to sleep.

The door appeared after the third time. "Amazing!" Susan cried out, then immediately covered her mouth. "Sorry," she said in a quieter voice. Ginny waved it off and opened the door.

The first thing she noticed was the shards of porcelain lying at her feet, as if someone had thrown china at the door. The room had indeed become a bedroom, and the two girls quickly stepped inside to avoid getting caught.

There was a neat little bedside table, and a warm rug, the bed itself being very plush and looking comfortable. But it wasn't empty. Ginny caught her breath when she saw the handsome face of the boy who was slumbering in it. Even as she watched, his eyes opened and he got out of the bed.

He was wearing day clothes, what looked like a rumpled Hogwarts uniform, his tie loosed and hanging down on either side of his pale neck. "Hello," he said simply.

"Er…" Ginny wasn't sure what to say. "Sorry for intruding," she said warily.

He waved a hand aside. It was a very long-fingered, graceful looking hand, she noticed. Susan and she exchanged a riddled glance. What could they say?

And then the boy saved them from having to think anything up by pointing his wand at Susan and smoothly saying, "_Stupefy_."

The black-haired girl fell to the floor, stunned. Ginny moved to the door, but knew she couldn't leave Susan here at the mercy of this stranger. "What d'you think you're doing?" she snapped at him. "Who the hell are you?"

He smiled. "Aren't you the firebrand?" he murmured. "You're the Weasley girl…Harry Potter's…"

She stared, goggle-eyed. "That Slytherin prat that's always bugging me?" she asked in disbelief. She hadn't seen him in months…right? "What, are you a friend of his? Think you're a funny bloke, do you?" Please think you're a funny bloke, she prayed inwardly, and not a psychopathic-murderer-bloke.

But the dark-haired boy simply arose from the bed and approached her. She whipped her wand out and held it in front of her as a warning. "Don't even try it," she said through gritted teeth.

The boy's handsome face lifted in a smile. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'd just like to talk to you, Ginny."

She snorted, glancing at Susan's still form. "Oh, yeah, tell me another," she said mirthlessly. The stranger had followed her gaze and shrugged.

"She was unnecessary in our meeting. This was a lucky chance, to meet the girl my Harry has such a liking for—even if he doesn't realize it yet. It's simply unfortunate this other one came along."

Ginny was growing confused. "What are you talking about? Me and Potter aren't friends."

The boy didn't answer. He watched her intensely, so that she was almost hypnotized. And when he reached out a hand to run through her fiery hair, she was too captivated to move.

"I could use another ally," he said, leaning close and letting his breath tickle her earlobe. "You're a skilled witch, aren't you? You like to sneak and slither all over the school, after dark…I see it in your mind, Ginny. You could learn to embrace the Dark Arts. Won't you join me?"

Ginny shuddered, closing her eyes. How he knew so much about her, how he was reading her mind, she didn't know. The Fred and George in her appreciated the humor of the situation: Ginny Weasley finds a great-looking bloke in bed and he turns out to be a Dark Arts fanatic.

She laughed a little and opened her eyes, her trance broken. "Look, I'm not going to be your 'ally' or anything, and if you really must know, I don't think coming on all evil is going to make you many friends."

He looked angry for a moment, but gathered his self-control before saying coolly, "Very well, little cat. Sorry you feel that way. _Stupefy!_"

----------------------------------------------------------------

Tom watched the redheaded girl fall to the ground. It really was a shame she didn't want to be friends, he thought as he picked up her wand and turned to her friend, who was already stirring slightly.

"_Avada kedavra_," he said lightly, watching the green jet of light issue from Ginny Weasley's wand. The black-haired girl stopped moving immediately, and Tom picked the two of them up and deposited them near the Hufflepuff common room. He twined Ginny's fingers around her wand again and stroked her hair back from her face.

The books Harry had gotten for him had been a marvelous read. Tom had learned everything he wanted to know about the events taking place around the time of Harry's birth: the death of the baby Neville Longbottom, the downfall of Lord Voldemort, the destruction of five different Horcruxes, and the search for the sixth that had never surfaced.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he murmured, smiling one last time at Ginny's vulnerable form before making his way back to the Room of Requirement. Tom Riddle had places to be.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, a Hufflepuff third-year found Ron Weasley's little sister kneeling, sobbing, next to the dead body of his best friend. A quick Priori Incantatem spell proved that Ginny Weasley's wand was, indeed, the wand that had fired the killing curse of the victim. Professor McGonagall, the sister's head of house, escorted her to her office, where the Weasley girl told her through broken sobs about a pale, dark-haired boy in a shape-shifting room on the seventh floor.

The floor was searched thoroughly by the staff, but no such room was found, nor the boy that the Weasley girl had been gibbering about. Professor McGonagall had no choice but to alert the Ministry to take the girl to some sort of holding area where she could wait to be tried by the Ministry for the murder of Susan Bones.

And so Ginny sat now, bound to a chair in the Entrance Hall, staring out the window at the noon-time sun while the fifth-years prepared for the exams that would start after lunch. She could hear Professor McGonagall asking her dorm-mates about the affair in the staircase leading to the hall.

"This doesn't come as a shock to any of you, that a girl like Ginny Weasley would do such a thing?" McGonagall's sharp voice was muffled by the twists of the stairs.

"Oh, Professor," came a tearful girl's voice. "She's so strange, all secretive-like, always sneaking around at night and coming in to bed at five in the morning. We knew she had to be up to something…"

Bollocks, Ginny thought with tears brimming in her eyes. You thought I was meeting some illicit boyfriend, Melinda Davies, you stupid lying bint. Oh, she wished she had never succumbed to the charms of the map, never tried to live up to her twin brothers' marauding standards, never stopped suppressing that itch of curiosity.

"…always had a weird relationship with her brother…yelling at him last Hogsmeade…small wonder she targeted his best friend…" Melinda's voice continued disjointedly.

Oh, God, Ginny thought. What was Ron going to think? She gave a great shuddering breath, and then heard McGonagall again, this time saying, "Very well, Melinda. I've got to…brothers should know…"

Ginny heard the lot of them walking away, and grimly stared at the ropes that bound her hands and ankles. Would this constitute ending the year with a bang enough for Fred and George? she wondered mirthlessly.

----------------

Whew. How was that, now? Really, I can't remember anything...


	39. Ending the Year with a Bang

Hello. Well, after about forty chapters of drawing things out and doing all that exposition stuff, this is ACTIONACTIONACTION! Heh...relatively at least. Last chapter will be up either tonight or tomorrow. Oh, and sorry about the title mix-up--the last chapter was Psychopathic Murderer Bloke. This is Ending the Year with a Bang. Enjoy, mes amies:

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ending the Year with a Bang

Ron couldn't believe it. Someone was obviously trying to play a funny joke on him—maybe that Malfoy scum. Perhaps someone wanted to distract him during his exam so he'd get abysmal grades on his O.W.L.s. Ha-ha.

As the other fifth years streamed into the Great Hall to take the Charms Theory Test, many of them gossiping in hushed tones about what had happened that morning, Ron leaned against the wall, cradling his face with his hands and taking great, gulping gasps of air.

This was how Hermione found him. Forgetting all her inhibitions, she flung her arms around him. "Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry, about Susan a-and Ginny." He let her hold him, his face against her neck, allowing the clean smell of her skin to calm him down. His face so close to hers, his breath hot on her cheek made her feel a strange warmth she knew she couldn't worry about just yet.

When he could finally talk again, he said profoundly, "Something incredibly fucked up is going on."

Hermione didn't chide him; rather, she laughed shakily.

"Ginny'd never…" he continued.

"Of course not!" she snapped vehemently. "It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and I've half a mind to write a letter to the Ministry—"

"Everybody in, everybody in," sputtered the examiner, Professor Marchbanks.

Hermione glanced towards the old man, then pulled Ron along into the Great Hall. "C'mon, Ron…exams." Ron followed half-heartedly. If there was anything he could do, he thought miserably, he'd surely bungle it up somehow anyway.

-----------------------------------------------------------

"I don't have time for these stupid exams," Harry spat as he and Malfoy strode upstairs from the dungeons.

"Well, you could always pull a Goyle and disappear," Malfoy drawled, not noticing Harry flinch. "Or you could kill someone, I suppose," he added thoughtfully.

Harry, trying not to shudder, asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Malfoy glanced at him. "Didn't you hear at breakfast? That Weasel girl apparently murdered some other bint. And…er…well, she's younger, but if she _were _a fifth-year, she wouldn't have to take the O.W.L.s—" Malfoy explained, his brow wrinkled as he confused himself, before he was interrupted.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" Harry asked. Something in him gave a painful wrench as he tried to digest this. "Ginny Weasley _killed_ someone?!"

Malfoy shrugged. "Personally, I don't think a stupid little blood-traitor'd have the bollocks to do it. And they say she kept rambling on about some tall, pale bloke that did it, but they couldn't find anyone…"

Harry stopped. "Tall? Pale?"

Malfoy looked at him, perplexed. "Yeah, so what?" The throng of Slytherins pushing past them on the stairs didn't understand the meaning of going around, so Malfoy grabbed Harry into the landing corner to be out of the way. "Something wrong?"

Harry glanced up at him. "What are they gonna do with her?" he mumbled.

Malfoy shrugged. "I dunno. Take her to the Ministry or something. They've got her tied up in the Entrance Hall," he added gleefully. "Oh, irony…big bad Weasel in Azkaban, think of it…"

Harry thought if he had to take one more bombshell, he'd turn comatose. "I have to go…I'll catch up with you later, okay?" Malfoy looked hesitant, but Harry yelled, "GO!" Before his friend had disappeared, Harry grabbed his arm and pulled him into an embrace.

"If I take longer than I should…I'll see you later, okay?" he assured Malfoy firmly. The fair haired boy only nodded dumbly, more confused than ever, before Harry shoved him away and into the crowd.

It must have been Tom, he thought as he watched Malfoy disappear up the stairs. He then hurtled back down the way he'd come, all the way down to the Slytherin common room. He snatched up his cloak and his broomstick, a Nimbus Two Thousand, and ran up all eight flights of stairs to the Room of Requirement. Blood pounded in his head, and the images of Goyle's face before his fall were replaced by red tendrils of hair dripping water onto ashen skin.

Had Tom framed her? Had Tom killed someone? Harry's close friend, that charming boy who'd given him so much attention, advice, and sympathy, a murderer? Uncle Lupin warned me, he thought wretchedly. He warned me about putting too much trust in people, about being blindly loyal, and look where it's got me…

The Room of Requirement was empty. Harry shut the door, paced thrice again, wishing for a bedroom, and opened it. Empty. Tom was gone. Where? Harry wondered. To Lucius Malfoy, perhaps? To the Ministry of Magic, or maybe to his own home, however old and dilapidated—and maybe even inhabited—it was now?

The entire question came down to who Tom Riddle was. Harry realized numbly that Tom had never once spoken of his home or upbringing, only of his Hogwarts years.

But that didn't matter now. Harry had freed him, and they were in it together. He, however, couldn't let someone else's life get ruined over it. He rushed onto an outdoors balcony, hopped on his Nimbus, and took off.

------------------------------------------

Ginny stared through the door of the Entrance Hall, watching as the hallways cleared, students sitting down to their O.W.L. exams. Would she be here next year to take these, or would she be rotting from the inside out in an Azkaban cell?

She heard footsteps. Tall figures were making their way to where she was trussed to the chair—McGonagall, it seemed, and a shorter figure that could have been the Minister of Magic. But Ginny was distracted by a whistling sound that grew louder and louder.

She turned her eyes to the huge window to her left before it smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor.

If she could have flung her hands over her face for protection she would have, but as it was all she could do was close her eyes against the shards of stained glass that sliced through the air. A second later, she heard a voice bellow, "_REDUCTO!_" and the ropes binding her disintegrated.

She opened her eyes. The Potter boy was hovering in front of her on a broomstick, his face bloodied and his eyes gleaming with a fearful determination, while she heard a commotion coming from the Great Hall next door. But there was only a moment for thought, before Potter grabbed her, swung her in front of him on the broom, and took off through the broken window into the sky.

She heard voices yelling Stunning curses, looked over Potter's shoulder to see people streaming out of the doors of the castle, some laughing and some screaming.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked Potter hoarsely.

"Shut up. I'm rescuing you," he snapped.

Ginny turned her eyes back to the view ahead of her. She saw the beams of spells shooting over their shoulders before the broom flew out of range. As the sun moved across the sky, they made their way across the Forbidden Forest, leaving the Hogwarts grounds behind.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Soon, it seemed that the escapees on the broomstick had either landed or flown too high to be seen. Shaken, the staff had ushered the students back inside to finish their O.W.L.s, as if such a thing was possible. The last thing Hermione had seen before she'd gone in was Cornelius Fudge spluttering to Dumbledore about heading a school of delinquents and fugitives. The headmaster himself looked grave and pensive, which worried Hermione. She'd come to expect only understanding and twinkling eyes from the old man.

Back inside, she came close to the shattered window in the Entrance Hall. Carefully picking her way over the pieces of stained glass, she touched her fingers to the busted edges still encased in the frame, trying to decide if what was going on was real. Ron's devastated face floated back into her mind, and the feel of his shuddering breath on her skin. How, she asked herself, is he going to feel about flying and brooms and escaping now?

She took one last glance out of the hole in the window. There was Hagrid's hut in the distance, and a little further off, the Forbidden Forest. Birds, seeming only specks in the sky, flew over the topmost branches of the imposing trees. One speck seemed to get larger and larger as she stared.

Hermione blinked and squinted harder, her eyes widening as she realized what she was seeing, what no one else, it seemed, had seen: Ron Weasley's sister with her unexpected rescuer, disappearing at the far end of the Forbidden Forest.

---------------

Er...action! I'll tell you, I very much enjoyed writing the scenes in this chapter. The window-smashy part in particular. It took me so long to figure out how to move Harry and Ginny toward each other, in a plot sense, and once I'd landed on this idea I probably started whooping with victory. Writing's a lot of fun sometimes.


	40. Man of Extraordinary Talents

Woo! Ready, chums? This is the (very short) last chapter...of part I, that is. I hope you've all enjoyed the ride (those of you who've stuck around, at least). You can go around reccing this story on various websites, if you want. Or you can sit back, sip your chardonnay, and laugh softly about poor starving artist FFF. (Only joking, I hate art!)

Chapter Forty: Man of Extraordinary Talents

Soon the forest was behind them. The sky was bright blue, and Potter now flew them over a golden field, skimming low to appear as if he'd landed to anyone who was watching. They flew this way for a while, Ginny's feet grazing the tall honey-colored grass. She felt almost serene, in spite of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. This place was like something out of a dream, the ideal summer. The sky and the grass, she thought, don't usually look this good.

After a time, Potter looped around back towards the forest, flying higher over the tall grass. They landed beneath the outermost fringe of trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the sun now nearing its setting. The two tumbled off the broomstick, landing in the grassy field, exhausted and exhilarated, taking great gulps of air.

Ginny lay on her back, staring at the drifting wisps of cloud. "Now what?"

"Shut up," Potter said breathlessly.

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"It's all our faults," Fred said miserably. "We shouldn't have given her the map…we should've pulled a Percy and, and been good role models or something…"

The three Weasleys were sitting hunched over in the Great Hall, ignoring the hubbub around them. If Ron himself hadn't been teeter-tottering on the edge, he would have marveled to see his older brothers so out of character.

"Ginny didn't kill that girl," Ron said savagely. "So it isn't anyone's fault, 'cause _it_ is all a big scam."

George just shook his head. "Still…if she hadn't had the map, if she hadn't been wandering around at night, none of it would ever…" The twins exchanged forlorn glances and fell silent again.

Ron, however, was neither sad nor in pain. He was boiling mad. This all had something to do with that stupid Slytherin, Harry Potter, he was sure of it. A boy who could talk to snakes, who rubbed elbows with the worst sorts of people in the castle…the topic of Ginny's rescuer—kidnapper, Ron corrected—hadn't been brought up by the twins yet, but Ron knew Potter had a hand in this. And Susan Bones, his best friend of five years now, was dead. He'd watched her aunt come to gather the dead girl's body, shaking with sobs. This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen—not here, not at Hogwarts.

Soon his own mum and dad would arrive at the castle, the former probably caught between sobs and screams. What would they say, about him, about Fred and George? "_Couldn't even keep your little sister safe…right under your nose…terrible brother!"_

Ron shuddered, then heard running footsteps stop beside him.

Once more, Hermione's arms were around him. "R-Ron, this is horrible…she's really gone…"

He stroked her bushy hair, and, unsure of whether she was talking about Ginny or Susan, said, "I know."

Hermione tugged him up. "I'll see you later," he muttered to the twins before joining her as she walked him back to his common room.

"What do you think will happen to her?" Hermione was asking aloud in a worried tone. "Do you think she'll be safe with that Potter boy? I don't trust him, really I don't, he had a book that would talk to him, and now they're both all alone in that forest…"

Ron broke out of his angry stupor. "What?!" he cried. "Forest? The Forbidden Forest?"

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. Ron grasped her shoulders. "You saw?" he demanded. "You saw where they landed?"

For answer, Hermione said tearfully, "You mustn't go chasing after them, please, it's so dangerous—"

Ron spun away and sprinted to his dormitory, lugging out his crummy old broomstick. He sped back out and past Hermione, who ran after him as fast as she could. "Weasley, wait!" she snapped furiously, clutching his wrist. "You can't go there alone," she insisted, but he continued racing towards the front doors. "Ten points from Hufflepuff! Twenty!" He was out the door and clambering atop his Cleansweep. "Thirty points!" she shrieked.

He turned and gave her an exasperated look. "Enough already, Granger, are you coming or not?"

She goggled at him. "But—I—we should leave it to the authorities…"

In half a moment, she'd thrown caution to the wind and climbed on behind him. "Hang on," Ron said as he shot off into the air.

"I'm only doing this because you lack brains," she said scathingly in his ear, partly resigned and partly shocked.

They disappeared into the sky, flying towards the forest, but not in time to escape the detection of a pale-blond boy who emerged from the castle, armed with his own broomstick and watching them with narrowed eyes.

"Potter, you great idiot. Well," he drawled with a dramatic sigh to himself astride his Firebolt, "I s'pose it's up to Draco Malfoy, man of extraordinary talents, to save the day once agai—"

He was cut off with a jerk as the Firebolt, impatient with its master, took off, bucking and jumbling his extraordinarily talented self through the air as the sun dipped beneath the rim of the world.

END OF PART I


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